Beyond the Veil
by jakey121
Summary: 'Death isn't something to be scared of, it's something to accept when the time comes. Fight for survival, live your life, and die when it's time to die. What comes after is left in the unknown, a mystery no one will ever solve on this earth. A mystery only the dead can overcome.' Welcome to the 40th Hunger Games.
1. Ready, Set, Go

**Chapter One.**

* * *

**Beyond the Veil;  
The 40th Hunger Games.**

* * *

**Pre-Reapings, Part One.**

* * *

**Lysander Davenport, 18 years old;  
District One Male.**

* * *

My fellow trainers, clad in their uniforms, start to gravitate towards the call-out. Thickly built and beady-eyed, our Head Trainer stares accusingly as they glide towards him. A pack of girls start to mumble under their breath, whispering and gossiping with their weapons cast aside. Immediately, he latches on and barks at them, shutting them up for good.

At the back, the view is spread wide, front entrance to back office in one clear sweep. My fingers flex open, and with a sigh, I let the sword handle slip through and clatter against the training floor. Steel rings out in a high-pitched echo, managing to gain the attention of absolutely no one.

That's good, without their eyes on me, I'm nothing. For the time being, I'm the fly on the wall, an observer. I watch groups congregate towards the massive swarm flocking to their master's call, quietening down into a hush. The lack of fellow eighteen year olds immediately piques my attention, the majority young and high on that energetic, dream-laced energy.

I remember those years, the buzz, the thrill. It was different to now. Back then, I had no idea what I could achieve, what my limits were and my potential. Whether or not I would be the chosen candidate, the most talented at what it is I was prepared to dedicate my teenage years to.

It was exhilarating and pressurizing all clambered into one.

Now, I know what my fate is. What I'm about to do, and I'm excited. Unlike the dark-haired, tanned girl mingling with her uneducated friends, I keep my voice low and thrill to a sub-level. Tallis Altier giggles into the ear of one of her friends, then nudges her shoulder and they look in the direction of a group of acne-riddled, lanky twelve year olds.

It brings about a smirk, at her behavior and at their appearance. Ineptitude doesn't show itself straight away, I wasn't much better looking at their age, so for Tallis to immediately regard the new meat as beneath her and her friends, well, it's stupid.

And that makes my future a hundred times easier.

A stupid District partner is more useful than a well-tuned, mentally strong one. I just have to know what to do and when to strike. It's all about working out how much to show and when to show it, and I'm the best at it. Better than most, at least.

"Lysander Davenport, if you think just because you're the poster boy for this year's recruits that you can hide away in the shadows, you might as well let one of these sorry lot volunteer instead. Get your ass over here."

At his voice, I quickly nod and shuffle forwards, leveling my pace so as not to give away anything. Tallis stares in my direction, smiling and nodding. I return the gesture and sidle up closer to her. Like a pack of immature teen girls, they disband at my presence, giggling behind my back when Tallis moves a curled piece of dark hair behind her ear.

"Good luck today Lysander, you must be so happy to be chosen."

The Head Trainer continues to bark his orders, his final words of a year well done and his welcomings to a fresh batch he promises to 'beat into shape'. I try to focus my attention entirely on Tallis, after all, despite her faults, she's still my fellow companion representing One.

We're here for our District's honor, and if I do fall with the possibility always there, I have to understand that Tallis is the final option for One to get a new Victor. Whether I like it not, she's useful. Regardless of her abundance of flaws.

"After breaking my back for this nut, I'd like to think I'm happy." I chuckle under my breath, smiling, "Yeah, I'm excited."

"Me too," she says with equal vigor. "It's always something I've... wanted." Her smile falters, for an imperceptible second, and still I manage to notice the way her face falls. When her expression returns, as strong as ever, I extend a hand towards her. _What was that? Can I use it?_

It's best to get her on board now, on my side. I don't know the competition, and an early ally before we're thrown into the thick of things would be wise of me. She might be weak, but maybe there are uses there. Uses I can manipulate when the time comes.

I'm not targeting her because I want to, it's because I have to. Anything to win, it's what our education has centered on. Victory at all costs.

She grips my hand, delicately, shaking it up and down. "Glad to be by your side, Lysander. I like you."

I move my arm in time to hers, only one thing playing on the outside, and a hundred thoughts teeming on the inside. "I like you too."

* * *

**Gemini Leole, 18 years old;  
District Four Female.**

* * *

_'Always Go On.'_

I twirl the ring round my finger, examining the carved words around the outer edge. It's a simple, silver ring. Nothing over the top, nothing extraordinary, nothing that someone like me would ever be seen with.

It's the one thing that means the most to me, my prized possession out of all the clothes, jewelery and expensive merchandise brought from my parent's income and delivered to me. I cherish each and every one of my possessions, but it's this ring, those words, that dig around deep inside my chest.

'_Always Go On.' _This is my life, those words, my motto. Life has a tendency for darkness, so I'm the one who doesn't live it the way people expect out of someone stuck here.

I'm that light, a different kind, someone you wouldn't expect.

"Which dress goes with this necklace?"

Saffron throws a bundle of clothes at my back, colliding with my shoulders and spreading wildly out on my vanity. I throw my hair over my shoulder and stand up, twirling around and jabbing a finger in her direction. "Nothing, that necklace looks like shit."

"Oh ha-ha," she strokes the golden mermaid, attached to a simple, elegant chain. Sometimes Saffron likes to think she's better than me, but like my ring, she's the one person I can't get enough of. The one person I'll always be here for in this depressing world that can't keep me down.

"For starters, you only wear that necklace if you're seeing Jefferson. And Jefferson is an obnoxious ladies-man who'll kiss you, do you, then dump you the next day."

She stamps her foot immaturely and crosses her arms over her chest. "That is not who he is, Gemini," she pouts, brightening to a level of red that matches my hair. "You don't know him like I do. He's not what everyone says he is, he's a good man. He is."

"Sure," I roll my eyes. She's another one so hooked on the idea of true love, eternal, unbeatable love to beat away the idea of there being no hope in Panem. Sweet, certainly, but immature. Stupid. Why fight away something that's trying to pull you down with something that can't hope to ever beat it?

Boys are toys. Fun, cute, playful, I'd do anything to spend my time with them if it suits me and I'm in the mood. But like any toy, I outgrow them, and Saffron should too. True love is painful, it breaks hearts, it damages girls like my naïve younger sister.

I don't let things like that faze me. I have a good time and roll with it.

"So, what do you think?" she bounces up, returning to her previous state as if nothing happened.

I let my eyes gaze over each dress in turn, until they land on a perfect, bright blue dress that in my opinion, suits me better, but would do just as fine stuck on her body.

"That one," I point. "Jefferson may be 'the one', but he's still a guy. He'll do more staring at your chest than your eyes, so use what you have. Low neck line, barely reaches halfway down your thighs. Perfect."

"You're such a slut Gemini, you always pick your clothes based on what makes you look good at the next party. Why don't you just pick something you're comfortable in."

"Saffron," I throw the dress at her, laughing, "you picked the dress. You're as big a slut as I am."

"Impossible."

With that one word, we both burst out in a fit of giggles. She throws more dresses and soon enough, my bedroom is a mess of different shades of dresses, from the brightest of reds to the darkest of blacks. If mother and father saw these they'd throw a hissy fit, but right now, I really don't care.

Today's a good day. It's the reaping. The day I finally take my place up on that stage and reap the rewards of being District Four's beautiful tribute. Saffron supports me, my friends support me, and the guys love the idea of being with a future Victor, so what's not to love about going into the Hunger Games?

Maybe blood and dirt will ruin my hair, or get under my nails, but things like that can be fixed. When I return, alive, beautiful, a star... I'll be the one person no one can get off their mind. The perfect girl.

"Thinking about taking your crown?"

"You betcha, now get dressed and get stuffed. I need to double check everything looks perfect. It's hard work, you know. Maintaining this," I gesture down my body and wave her out my room, laughing in time to the door slowly closing.

Time to get this show on the road.

My show.

My Games.

* * *

**Charles Craft, 18 years old;  
District Six Male.**

* * *

"No, no, no, no. Stop. Stop, that's not how you do it."

Al whacks the wrench against the sheet of metal, over and over senselessly. He stares at me with wide, curious eyes and then goes back to beating my poor baby to a silver pulp.

"Stop it," I dive for him, grabbing the wrench from his hand. "It's against the gentleman's code to ever hit a lady. And a beautiful one at that."

"It's a lump of metal," he knocks it with his fist, smirking. "See, metal. Plus, it can't be a lady, it doesn't have a v-"

I punch him in the shoulder and laugh. Soon enough, we're on the floor, rolling around in grease and dirt that sticks to my hair, staining my shirt and trousers. Father wouldn't be pleased with me wasting my time like this, but the look on Al's face causes potential worrying to disappear to the back of my mind. On and on we fight, playfully, like brothers you might say.

"Woah, woah, woah. I concede. You win."

He pushes against my chest with his little hands, tiny hands actually. Baby hands. I grip them hard and pull him onto his feet, swiping away the dust and grime coating his shoulders. He sticks his bottom lip out and runs a hand through his hair, flicking out a dead... bug.

"Ew, look what you did."

"What I did? You weren't doing it properly."

Al shakes his head and looks back at his work for the day. It was his job to use the tools to attach the metal over there to the other sheet resting by the door, then for it to be shipped off to be added to the real beauty being constructed. Easy enough, for someone with a brain.

Unfortunately, I don't think Al has one.

"Not everyone shares your love for hovercrafts Charlie, they're noisy, big, and kind of boring."

Before I can open my mouth to reply back, a set of footsteps stops me from something I might regret later. Al and I never hold a malicious thought against one another, but we like to knock each other to the dirt, and it might just be enough to start round two if I continued.

Besides, the person I want to speak to now more than anything walks on through, glowing with the sun streaming behind her.

Britt is the real girl for me, when I'm not tinkering around in here, I can't stop thinking about spending time with her. Blonde hair, pink glasses. Dreamy stuff. When she steps through and stares at us, eyebrow raised, my chest does that fluttering thing it's always done in her presence.

If only... I stare at her, silently hoping, maybe today, being reaping day, she's here to announce her undying love for me. Love, I know isn't there. Love, I wish could exist.

"You two look like you've been fighting in the Hunger Games."

"One of us," I jab a thumb against my chest, puffing it out proudly, "coming out victorious."

Al makes a noise, somewhere between a snort and a laugh. Britt steps forwards and runs a finger along my cheek, wiping away a speck of grease, or a bug, or whatever. I don't see her flick it away, all I see and feel is the heat on my cheek and her finger, her beautiful finger... since when were fingers such pretty things...

"Charlie," she claps her hands and I blink those thoughts away, blushing. Quickly, trying to push away some of the embarrassment, I clear my throat and smile.

"So, what's the plan?"

"You're the big boss man, you tell us. You could play with your 'babies' in here, or maybe come out and see real people."

Al's the first to jump on board, far too eager really. Not one to let my little friend show me up, I step forwards and push them apart. The door lets in a little light from outside, enough to hurt my eyes, but I continue towards it.

Being cooped up indoors doesn't really do me good, but I had Al. Now I have Britt. As long as I have my friends with me, nothing can ever go wrong.

Life is good for me here, it always has been, and I know it always will be. Maybe I'm that guy, the guy to laugh and poke fun at, the guy people treat like a towering buffoon. But I like that role, really, it's nice to make people laugh and feel good about it at the same time.

Britt might not see me the way I want her to, maybe it's never meant to be.

Al, he's a short dweeb who won't share my interests to the same degree I do.

That's alright though.

I am who I am, and I like it. Life is a good thing here, I don't plan on trading it for anything.

* * *

**Etolie Laville, 17 years old;  
District Seven Female.**

* * *

Sometimes, when things get difficult, I find it easier to barricade myself away. Sometimes, there are places I can go where I can hide rather than face reality. Think through nothing, block thoughts out, cast them away.

The treetops are a sanctuary, a refuge from Panem.

I lean forwards on the end of a branch, staring up at the canopy above and the forest floor below. Plenty of noises ring fresh through the air; axe on bark, lumberjacks bellowing to one another, workers joking or panting through exertion. I take it all in and let out a sigh, falling back against the trunk and digging around to get a better grasp.

When I'm alone, like this morning, it brings about its own sort of bliss. Lack of company means a lack of thought, a lack of control, a lack of a filter that has to be put up to protect others as well as myself.

It's too much, so much to focus on when survival is really all that matters. Society's way of putting together strands of acceptance and taboo, and everything in between, it's hard to really find where I stand amongst it. What I can and can't do. What will result in an easy life, and what will result in a bullet to the skull.

But here, it's nothing. It's freedom.

"Etolie, you're not hard to spot."

And as quick as freedom comes about, a voice can shatter it into pieces.

"Go away," I scowl, barely moving at all. As still as a statue, I feel the wind blow through my hair, scatter the leaves and pull at the branches. She shouts again, cheering my name rather than calling. I don't want to go down, not today. Reaping day isn't necessarily a day to fear, but it's a day that means we're all together. Everyone in Seven, people I don't know, don't like and don't care about. People who expect things of their peers, things I can't return.

"Go away, for the last time." I look over and glare in her direction. Those happy eyes, optimistic eyes. They do nothing except brighten up, sparkling at my rejection because it's all a game to my friend Lakota.

"I'll come up and get you, don't think I won't." She stamps her foot, laughing. As if she can do anything to move me. Lakota is stubbornly playful, a trait I don't like. It's the sort of person I need to be around, and yet need to stay the furthest from. If I want to be who people want me to be, I need her to model myself on. And if I want to be myself, knowing that no matter what I say, people will hate it, I can't be around someone who brings the unwanted attitude out of me.

"You're never normally this boring," she moans in a whining voice that draws out through the breeze. I stare back down, unrelenting, unmoving, and she only meets my eyes and giggles again.

"Starlin wants to see you, he's scared of reaping day. He always has been, he needs his friends about."

"He needs to grow up," I snap back. "Starlin's not a baby, he's been to reaping days before, he knows what they are and what could happen."

Lakota doesn't wince, not like other people. Others hate the way I don't coddle those around me and smother them under obliviousness. Maybe that's why I stick around Lakota, she perseveres. I like determination in people, there are different kinds, my kind and then Lakota's. It's probably why we're still friends.

"If you don't want to come down, you don't have to, but we'd like it if you would. We are your friends you know. Friends care."

"If friends care and you're one of my friends, you'll go away. Sometimes it's easier to relax than face it." I see her mouth open and quickly interject. "I'm not scared, I'm not. I just like time to myself. Time away from people who are too emotional."

"Emotions are good Etolie," Lakota says, sighing and walking away. "They bring people together."

_Y__es Lakota_. They do. Emotions help show people who you are, what you want from your own life and others, what they can do to help you. Emotions build friendships, trust, love and laughter. They build everything someone could want in their lifetime.

She's right, they do bring people together.

But they also pull them apart.

They ruin the things you love the most.

* * *

**Thanks to Burning Stars, Acereader55, hoprocker and QuietConspiracy for these four tributes.**

* * *

**As usual, a question or two for each chapter, I like people's opinions ;P**

_**Favourite POV?**_

_**Which tributes stood out the most and why?**_

* * *

**Welcome to Beyond the Veil. Those of you who were following Dreams of Dust, well, things happened and that collaboration had to end, but rather than dump all the tributes and whenever I started another SYOT, gather some more. I thought it was much easier to stick with who I had, and that's why I'm starting this now since they're all ready to use.**

**This is still in the same verse as Madhouse, set ten years later, you don't need to have read that story to read this, since the Victor will appear, but only rarely and there shouldn't be any mentions of what happened during that story. Victors have been added to the blog on my profile, so you can check that out if you're interested, and the new blog link is also on my profile, though it's pretty much the same as the old one.**

**Chapter format, six pre-Capitol chapters, four POVs. They're smaller POVs, they'll get bigger come the Capitol, but it's good to get away from this point of the story as quick as possible. Not sure about an update schedule, hopefully it'll be weekly, if not, I apologize since I have another story to write.**

**Apart from all that, once again thanks to those that submitted those couple of months ago. Thanks for reading, and yeah, I'm excited to get this going!**


	2. Our World

**Chapter Two.**

* * *

**Pre-Reapings, Part Two.**

* * *

**Meva Ralline, 18 years old;  
District Three Female.**

* * *

From the kitchen, the clatter of crockery startles me from my sleep. I jump up quickly, throw some clothes on, and rocket through my door and down the stairs. There, standing with a smile on her face, is my mother.

"Oops," she shrugs her shoulders and begins to sweep up the remains of some of the plates. Bacon - _bacon! - _sits sizzling in a pan. I notion towards it and she jumps up again, laughing. "Double oops!"

I start to giggle myself and sit down around the kitchen table, watching her prance about the place, sweeping up the mess and dishing out the breakfast. It'd be easy to lose yourself in a morning like this one; peaceful, relaxed, familiar.

You wouldn't believe what was looming over all of Panem today, waiting in a few hours to strike.

"It won't be you honey," my mother quickly says, latching on to my distress. Always one to be tuned into her daughter's emotions, she says it's something a mother knows, something every mother can tell. I'd like that. One day I hope I can be as good a mother as my own, to help my children grow up, as decent, honest people.

You don't get a lot of that in this place, people are... people. Complex beings. You have good people, like my mother and father, me too, I hope. Then you have the bad people, like those who dwell in the Capitol, or those barbarians in the Career districts who actually, somehow, enjoy the torture and torment of innocent children in the Games.

It's quite absurd, and if I'm honest, interesting how it works out that way. How, the same species, pretty much identical in the way it appears externally, can be so different internally. How it comes together is intriguing, to me, anyway.

"You alright there Meva?" Mother chews into a bit of burnt bacon, crunching away. I shake the silly thoughts out from my mind and nod my head, eagerly picking up a knife and fork to cut away into my own charred breakfast.

"Father couldn't be here?" I ask. By the way my mother pauses, I know she wishes he could. It's been this way for so long, two good, hardworking people, but with two different responsibilities in my upbringing. Someone had to work twice as hard outside the house, and someone twice as hard inside.

Stereotypes live long in this world, it's just the way it works. Things don't change. I quite like that, again, it keeps things familiar, it makes it easier to pin down the way everything has to run.

It'd be good to see him though, especially today.

"He's busy, reaping day means a lot more work to get done in a shorter time. He'll be here for dinner though, everyone has the evening off to... celebrate."

"Celebrate," I laugh at the word. The meaning of celebration is totally different to how we all feel after the reaping. There's nothing at all to celebrate, not a single thing. The only part of today I can try to find that happy state of mind from is the fact I'll have the two most important people by my side.

My parents.

I wouldn't give them up for anything.

"Are you going to see Massie today, I'm sure she'd love to see you?"

I finish up the last crunch of bacon and smack my lips together, nodding my head. "Sure, sure. It'll be nice, spend some time before the storm, you know."

My mother nods sadly and picks up the plates, rummaging around in the sink. When the water starts to drown out her humming and my heavy breathing, I kick out from the table and turn to leave for the other room.

I don't want to be around when it starts. She always cries on reaping day, when she thinks no one notices. But the water doesn't block out everything.

She cries for me, because she doesn't want to lose me.

Well, she won't lose me. I won't let the Capitol take me away from the people I love the most. They mean too much to me, far too much for something so insanely evil as today to ruin.

Life is too precious to lose.

Here, it's something I can't, I _won't, _let slip through my fingers. Maybe I'm too stuck in my ways, too ignorant or too stupid to accept the way things have to be in this life. But it means far too much to me for things to stay the way they always have been, for our family to be the same strong unit, with Massie there to give me a close friend when I need someone else to speak to.

I cannot let it change, for anything.

I won't be reaped.

_You have my word, Mother._ Things will stay the same way. Us, together, as a family.

Always.

* * *

**Assisi Umbria, 16 years old;  
District Five Male.**

* * *

The little girl picks up the can of red paint. Dumbfounded, she stares up at me with those repulsive, sparkling eyes. All innocent like a sweet little baby. I smile and bend down to her level, edging towards her.

The wind behind the two of us is acting up, she sways on the spot and stares over her shoulder, slightly scared.

"No monster's going to jump out from the shadows. The only person you have to fear is me, and I'm here to protect you." I place a hand on her shoulder and nudge her towards the back door. This is nothing, merely something to pass the time of a restless morning waiting for this godforsaken day to rear its ugly head and move on.

Some of us have better things to be doing, like Angelina. She's someone I'd love to be _doing _right about now.

"Why can't you do it?" she bites her bottom lip and shakily thrusts the can to me, red paint sloshing around inside. I'd strike her if it wasn't against some kind of inbuilt moral code of mine. Girls, especially little girls, are delicate flowers. I won't hit a little girl, even if she's being an irritating little weed.

_If you had enough time, you know the best way to do this would be to climb on the roof. Or construct some kind of mechanism, some pulleys, a bit of rope, a lever maybe. Drop it in style. _

If only... I close my mouth and repress a pent up sigh. Instead, gritting my teeth to restrain my frustration, I nudge her again, this time a little bit harder than before.

"I have the most important job deary, the part that requires someone a little bit bigger. I have to knock," I gesture to the door and smile. _I'd rather gag on this sweetness. I don't do sweet._

"This is what fun is, right?"

I nod and pat her pretty little head. She barely even reaches my waist, this is why it's perfect. I hope she isn't treated that bad, it's just... well, I care about myself far too much to be caught doing something so petty. I'm just bored. Boredom is very, well, boring. I don't like the emotion.

Besides, little merchant girls like her are raised by those with absolute no qualms in getting kids like me, _gutter rats, _thrown away or locked up. Whipped even. Well, let's see how they like it when it's one of their own.

"This is the definition of fun, all the cool kids are doing it!"

I sense the hesitance, and then, it's as if visibly I watch it leave her with one deep exhale. Smiling, she takes the first step, and then the next, towards the door where my fun lies in wait.

"Ready," I raise a finger and linger by the right side, closer to the alleyway, whilst she's too far away to reach escape in time. _Naive little girl, foolish __little girl__. _

I swipe my hand downwards and knock. Without a moment's hesitation, I swing backwards and dive for the alley, peering round the wall. For safe measure, I take another clear look over my shoulder. Don't want anyone sneaking up on me, that's for sure.

The door opens, slowly, almost like it's shoving the suspense in my face and choking me. When the Peacekeeper in his uniform, fully geared up for today, actually steps up, the little girl looks as if she's about to faint. And then, like a second ago, confidence consumes her and the paint leaves the can in a splash of crimson beauty.

It drenches him, from his visor all the way to his steel-toed pretty white boots. Well, they were white. Now it's like Mr Authority waded through fresh corpses, blood from head to toe.

I watch for one last moment as the girl continues to laugh and looks to me, I nod and she turns the opposite way. But it's too late, oh, it's far too late.

The Peacekeeper lunges, and like a sack of potatoes, the girl is hoisted over one rather sodden shoulder and flung through the door of the Peacekeeper's office.

Yeah, I forgot to mention that part to her. She just drenched the _Head _Peacekeeper. With paint. On reaping day.

I leave with a certain swagger, a certain pride. Maybe someone _normal _would feel guilt about tricking a little girl into wanting that acceptance company brings. But she deserves it.

They all deserve it.

If they want to treat me like an imbecile, I'll show them the complete opposite from the shadows. I'm not a bitter person because I like it, I'm angry because it's what they've created.

Anger is natural for a teenager anyway, right?

Well, if it's not, who cares?

It's all for the sake of something so much greater, so much more tempting in my life.

Entertainment.

* * *

**Tamarin Bray, 17 years old;  
District Nine Female.**

* * *

Maisie takes a firm grasp on Caulder's hand, and with Astrid behind our little gathering, we turn the corner. Onto the main street, our group walks together, laughing. Maisie and Caulder whisper into each others ears, gossiping no doubt, whilst Astrid quickly ventures up closer and links her arm with mine.

"Lovebirds, aw," she makes a soppy kissing sound and laughs, scooting even closer to me. I feel her hair tickle my neck and start to laugh too. It's not the funniest thing, what Astrid has to say, or what those two up there do in their private lives, but I'm not going to let Astrid feel insecure about herself.

Or like I don't care about what she has to say.

That's rude, it's impolite. I don't want anyone I call a friend to ever doubt themselves, or feel like I'm not there for them.

Even if, maybe, underneath everything, I don't really feel tuned into anything anymore.

"You know, I heard a rumor that Astrid and Caulder were caught in Mr Nelson's office, doing more than sorting through the files," I pull a face and start to giggle, the pair of us like six year olds with our two infatuated friends none the wiser, walking in front with no sense of real direction.

We'll go wherever this walk really takes us, when it's time to venture towards the Square, we'll know. There's a certain buzz in the District air when the ceremony begins, people tense up, run around like ants, or flock to anyone nearby for a bit of respite from the fear of losing someone they love.

I wish things were different, truly. It's awful to see an otherwise closely knit community be tormented through something so cruel. It makes it harder to really see that all important light, the one thing I need to fuel my relationship with these people around me.

"Oh my god, hey, hey Mr and Mrs Tenneson," Caulder reacts to his last name and spins on the spot, raising an eyebrow. I can't help but gesture towards the people around me, none of them staring, but all of them very much tuned in to what goes on. Especially in the busiest part of Nine.

"Get a room, no one here, of all places, wants to see you two bump uglies."

"Bump ugl-" he throws his hands up and laughs, awkwardly turning back to Maisie and resuming their walk. Astrid nudges me in the side and carelessly stumbles, laughing even more. I steady her out and move towards a wall, for a moment's rest. With this heat raining down on us, anything could happen.

"You drunk or something?" I poke her in the stomach and watch her cheeks flush with red. She hooks an arm round my shoulders and shakes her head vigorously.

"Drunk on life my dear friend."

"Life, what this life, today?"

_Don't Tamarin. She's happy, don't bring her down._

"Why wouldn't I be, who cares about the reaping when I have you guys?"

"Very true," I jab her again. She pulls back and lunges at me, ready to hook me round the face. I jump back, giggling and charge at her instead. Maybe this is a good enough distraction from the reaping, being with a group who I'm certain, maybe on some level, care about me. Maybe not to the degree that they act like, but we're still friends.

There has to be some level of care there. It's good to have a diverse group of people, especially when two of them get down and dirty, it brings about a lot of drama, stirs things up. Things I can throw myself into, maybe pull and prod at them, maybe even start some of my own.

Anything to... to make me feel like it's worth it...

_Don't._

"Hey." Now it's Astrid's turn to poke me. I blink and level my eyes with her, shaking my head. "Why the frown all of a sudden? It's not because... oh Tamarin, I know it'll be hard seeing him up on the stage, after he practically stole her away-"

"No, no, I'm not upset about my sister. She can do whatever she wants with a Victor, they're old enough. Adults." I laugh dryly, shaking my head. An adult would protect her younger sister, would notice that maybe deep down, she wasn't the girl that people see on the outside, the naïve, stupid girl who only wants what's best for other people.

I do, but for selfish reasons. Because it makes me think things are worth continuing on for. What's so bad about wanting a bit of a distraction, when all Panem does is make me look at life for what it really is...!

"Tamarin, hey, hey, it's alright. Today will be over real soon, and then we can go back to mine and hang out, huh? Everything's alright."

I nod and smile, the same smile I always have to wear to tell myself everything's okay.

When I know for a fact, what I'm going through, is the complete opposite.

It always will be.

* * *

**Clarence Higbee, 16 years old;  
District Eleven Male.**

* * *

Eleven is lost in a thick fog that drifts above and through the shacks lining my street. Up ahead, I squint my eyes to make out jumbled shapes working their way through their daily proceedings. I should join them, but something feels ominous about today's weather.

Something bad.

I shake off the petty superstition. _You're a man, Clarence. Not a baby. _I grip onto my satchel and start to walk with my eyes stuck on front. When the fog splits with each step, I make out my neighbors putting out their laundry, or little kids running about, playing games with the wisps of mist as if they can catch it.

A part of me finds their games pleasing, their innocence remarkable given today. Given where we live. But that I'm quickly reminded is not how I should feel, I shouldn't feel happy for them, I should feel sorry. Sympathy. Their lives aren't great, and soon enough, they'll realise it.

We all do.

"Clarence!"

Behind me, the soft tinkling of her voice glues me to the spot. She's not meant to be out, not until I return home in time for the reaping, then we were going to head out together. I turn on the spot and stare with narrowed eyes, meeting face to face with Nettie. Her delicate, pretty blonde hair curls ever so innocently over her shoulders, her deep, sea blue eyes, her pale, milky skin.

She's somehow, despite all my faults, with me. And I have to protect her; from this, from the world.

"Mother and father said they'd sort out a nice breakfast for you, you don't have to come with me."

She stares at me with that all too familiar smile, a smile that hides a thousand and one mysteries. I wish I could be the person she wants me to be, someone she deserves. I'm not the kind of guy who deals with romance, I deal with trees and apples, and occasionally a fight if someone, like Nettie, needs my help.

That's the kind of boyfriend I am. Gruff, inhospitable, but loving, in my own weird way.

"I don't want a bit of burnt bread, I want to be out. It's nice and cold today. We don't usually get cold weather."

"Be happy for that, more people die in the cold than they do in the heat."

She shivers and stares at me, as if I've said something wrong. Nettie has no one, and on top of that, more than anyone she knows the dangers of being homeless when the weather turns sour. I bow my head sympathetically and turn back around, swinging my satchel with me.

"I'm sorry," I say, over my shoulder. _Sorry isn't what she wants, Clarence. She wants you, all of you, none of this held back nonsense. _If only it were that simple.

"You're not good with words, hey, I get it." I hear her footsteps patter against the ground to catch up to my large strides, and an arm, a simple, frail arm that hooks through my own. Her hair dangles over my shoulder when she goes to rest it gently in the crook of my neck. These moments, it's like time, even this mist, freezes in its place.

The two of us stand stock-still in the centre of our street, with the sounds of her heavy breathing and my beating heart shared between us. Maybe, maybe I'm hating the parts of me she loves the most. She acknowledges that I can't be Prince Charming, someone who will sweep her off her feet, speak soft words, make her feel good about herself when it's necessary.

But I can love her.

"I'm good at some things, though."

She laughs, nuzzling my neck. Other people mill past us in their little groups of family, or friends, or work colleagues. No one pays us any attention, just the way I like it.

"I know you are Clarence. You're a good person, doesn't matter if that isn't obvious to everyone. It's obvious to me."

_See, Clarence. See how things are. See how she thinks of you, maybe she's not the only one who looks at you that way. _Maybe I'm not such a bad person.

"We should get going, the reaping starts soon and I need to work for a bit."

She pouts, jabbing a finger in my stomach. "Today of all days?"

"Today especially."

Reaping day. The one day of the year, hope, dreams, love, all of that, doesn't matter one tiny little bit. People are still ripped from one another, it's random, bad luck, whatever you want to call it. But it still ruins lives.

It could still ruin my life.

It could take me away, it could take Nettie away.

Today, especially, is what makes this world a terrible place.

* * *

**Thanks to Cashmere67, Vulkodlak, Foxface5 and SomeDays for these four tributes.**

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

* * *

**It's been, what, four days? That's good for me, usually I'm very lazy. I might even try and update again tomorrow, this is just a lot of fun to write, I'm digging these tributes so far and I'm pretty sure the rest will come easy when I begin to get into their characters too!**

**Thanks to everyone who's reading, reviewing, favouriting, all that kinda stuff. Means a lot. I hope you liked this chapter, leave a review ;P**


	3. Unfair

**Chapter Three.**

* * *

**Reapings, Part One.**

* * *

**Soren Ansel, 15 years old;  
District Three Male.**

* * *

The biggest of the trio blocks the way forward. I stare up at him and meet his gaze; his two, beady eyes narrowing as his evil smirk – his famous smirk – only grows deeper into his acne riddled cheeks.

"Hey buddy," he slaps me on the shoulder and grins, digging his nails in. If there's one thing I've learnt through the years, it's to meet their look, show them no weakness, and for once in my life, stand up for who I am.

"Hey pal," I retort, mirroring the fake positivity glowing from his face. Without me breaking, his face immediately begins to contort. His cronies, strong on the outside, weak on the inside, stare up at their boss.

"What are you doing?"

I raise an eyebrow and hold my ground, even when pain begins to flare through my arm. His eyes bore into my own as his rather sharp nails grind around in my skin. Over his shoulder, the crowd is thickening as people flock and separate to their sections. _You need to get the__re__ on time Soren, what would your parents think?_

"It's been great talking to you," I pull away and duck under an arm that's sent straight for my face. "See you later!" _I hope not. _

The three of them stare at me, their big, round, ugly faces brightening red when they see that the Peacekeepers are starting to move towards them. I'm less of a target, but those three, they're massive standing there looking dumb in my direction. Well, not this time. I know I'll pay for not giving them the satisfaction of watching me beg for my loose change to be returned, or my... underwear to be relieved from my... _It's not fair. _

I try to keep the smile on my face, as hard as it is. The Peacekeeper jabs me in the finger with the needle and shuffles me along with a giant, white gloved hand. For someone not that short, I feel like an ant amongst an army of giants. People shove me aside without thinking to get to their own sections, whilst others stare right through me, like I'm an invisible entity of nothing.

Even when I try to be a good, decent person, a person with a set of morals you don't find often in a world like ours, it's shoved straight back in my face. Bullying, teasing. Maybe it isn't fair, but no one else seems to give a damn.

I'm at the bottom of the food chain, and as long as it's no one they care about, why spare a thought for some random kid?

Eventually, the reaping begins with me standing between two kids, thankfully my height and body shape. Some of the others are like the bullies from earlier, and some are even smaller, and yet they still exude a sense of confidence I struggle to match.

If only I could be like him, up on stage, a bit too feminine with random pink feathers sprouting from his body, but with a voice to control a crowd, and gestures to dazzle them. Even if he's a bad person, I stare transfixed as his fingers circle the rim of the bowl, and out comes the first slip.

Time to get this show on the road.

"For the females, the magnificent, the beautiful, Meva Ralline!"

The chosen girl takes a while to walk out, the norm for this District. When she's finally spotted by the Peacekeepers and urged forwards forcefully, I see the fear etched into her expression. She bites her bottom lip and stands up on the stage, her fists clenched tight.

We've had runners before so the Peacekeepers take no chances, standing attentively by each shoulder. If only it could be someone who didn't look so... so... kind.

I know the way decent people look, and Meva Ralline, well she seems like a good person. The Games always kill the best kinds of people.

"Soren Ansel!"

W-What...?

Someone guffaws behind me. I recognise the voice immediately and like Meva, my fists clench, but for entirely different reasons. Anger, then shock, then sadness, then complete and utter fear overwhelms me. I'm not... I'm not someone cut out for...

Killing.

Death.

All of those things, that's not me. I'm the kid who gets shoved around and still tries to be kind to people, because maybe karma will one day provide me with a decent life. But this, this is the card I'm finally dealt with?

Reaped.

The Hunger Games.

Meva stares at me when I reach her side and quickly averts eye contact. Maybe out of sympathy, maybe pity, or maybe because I look so damn pathetic quivering and staring wide-eyed out into the crowd.

My parents are out there. My bullies.

But the majority, they don't even know who I am. I'm a nobody, even when I try to be a somebody.

I'm useless.

* * *

**Raegan Kalis, 18 years old;  
District Five Female.**

* * *

A crowd of kids assemble around me, gawping at my sister and I.

"Where'd you get that?!" the smallest and most astounded asks, jabbing a finger in the direction of my camera. I pull it back and grin, stroking the top and handing it to my sister's open hand.

"It's a secret," I reply, smirking.

"Can I get one?!"

"Me too!"

"And me, please, oh pretty please miss!"

Like a bomb going off, the group blow up into an orchestra of questions and demands. I stare at my sister and start to laugh, peeling her away from a rather overeager girl latching herself to her leg. Most of them, if not all, stare at our retreating forms with hollow, sunken eyes. A part of me yearns to help them, in some way, but this is the hand life has dealt them. It's the hand they must grow to accept.

"You never answered us, where'd you get it?" The same girl who sent the kids into a frenzy pouts and runs a hand through her scraggly, blonde hair. I stare once again at Ze and nod my head, wrapping my fingers round the camera.

Wagging a finger forwards, I gesture towards me and the little girl runs for my direction, rags streaming behind her as the breeze catches her lithe, frail form. She's rather scrubby for my liking, dirt clinging to her like a blanket. Disregarding that, I bend to her level and pinch her cheek. Anything to make someone so delicate smile.

"Stand still," I raise a finger and obediently, the little girl freezes on the spot with the widest, most sweetest grin I think I might have seen come from this District, on today of all days.

With a click, I take the picture. The flash momentarily stuns her, but once she snaps out of it the picture immediately develops itself, and out comes the small sheet, with quite a pretty little girl cast on the front. She stares, wide-eyed and bursts out into a fit of giggles, hugging me again with the picture clutched in her grip.

"Now, go off with your friends. You don't want to be late. A proper little lady shows up on time." I curl a bit of her hair behind her ear, pat her once on the head, and together in unison we turn away and head in the opposite direction.

"We should head there too," Ze adds, linking her arm with mine. The camera rests on its strap round my chest, a constant reminder of our parents, our wealth, and the fact that it's only me and my sister now. I know they'll be proud of me.

Proud of us.

Especially, considering what I'm doing today. The day I've been waiting for ever since they left those years ago, to be in the one city they love the most.

"You certainly look chipper," she says, elbowing me in the side with a laugh. I nod and let my hair fall back over my shoulders, soaking in the morning sun. It's a dusty District we live in, dirty, cloudy at times, but today it's like fortune is raining down upon me on the one day I've been longing for.

Better than my hookups with Byron, better than what I did just now. Truly, I'll finally feel like I've played the part of the perfect daughter, when they see me again, it'll feel complete. Whole.

The tables lined up out front are laid in a neat little row, but through the crowd surging to get this over and done with, the Peacekeepers seem to have been put in quite a dour mood. They lighten up a little when we arrive, smiling since we're associated with the wealthy side of the District.

"Miss Kalis," the registrar nods, taking my blood. "Miss Kalis." The same is done with my sister, and together, like always, we strut through arm in arm.

"You look so regal Raegan."

"A lady likes to look her best," I giggle, swaying the light dress sweeping down my legs. It's cut short just above my feet, not wanting to get it too frayed or dirty. It'll be good to change into something exported from the Capitol, but it's nice to appear there in something paid for from my parent's money. A little bit of them coming with me.

When the reaping progresses forwards, Ze starts to fidget. I know why. She doesn't want me to leave, but it's for that very reason I'm more determined to volunteer. It's no lie that me and her don't always see eye to eye, and her no's always make the yes's intensify that much more inside of me.

This is just something she won't ever understand.

"Mona Carlett-"

"I volunteer!"

With a proud hand thrown in the air, confidence layered upon more confidence, I walk elegantly to the central aisle. Soaking in the attention, I move up towards the stage and plant my feet firmly on the centre without a chip or scratch on the surface.

"Raegan Kalis, your Victor."

With the camera round my chest, with my sister in the sidelines, and with my parents waiting, this has never felt more right.

I'm going to the one place I truly belong.

The Capitol.

* * *

**Septimius Cort, 14 years old;  
District Eight Male.**

* * *

_Will this ever end? _I think to myself.

Demetrios ruffles my hair some more, wrapping a tight arm round my neck and bringing me to his chest. Today in Eight, the sun is high and bright in the sky, birds chirp to one another and fly overheard, people genuinely seem to be attempting to brighten up their otherwise depressive states of mind, and I couldn't be any more displeased.

Because, when you have a brother like mine, one tends to never, for a second, find any reprieve from his blabber mouth.

_You only have to bear it until the reaping begins, you're younger, he's older. You'll have your silence. _I grit my teeth and wait it out, nodding in all the right moments, and even attempting to reflect some of the conversation back onto him with closed answers.

It keeps him satisfied. If there was ever a thing Demetrios cannot do is tune himself into another person's emotions when he's having a conversation. If you're as infectiously optimistic as he is, you're still the lesser person in the conversation. Or, if you'd rather cut his tongue out and throw it in the trash than have to listen to him drivel on, you're still the lesser.

So, rather than complain, why not suffer such a fool for a short while and satisfy his insatiable desire to be heard? I know I'd rather not have to listen to his whining later on if I hurt his feelings, so I buckle down, raise my head high and walk with a certain swish in my step as the Square approaches on the horizon.

Some people stare at my brother with bemusement, others walk off further away or to the sides. I look up at his jolly face and lopsided, stupid looking grin and smirk to myself. _He has no clue does he? _In someways I pity him, whilst I'm pretty much aware of the state of the place we live in, he seems to think we reside in the Capitol or have a mansion to ourselves, or whatever nonsense it is that keeps him so optimistic about our lives.

Not that I'm complaining about where it is we live, to be honest, I couldn't really care if we were poor, or if we were rich. Life is life, and you deal with what you've got. Unlike some of the more outspoken people in this District, I don't see the point of making a big deal out of something you cannot change. I swallow it down, clench my fists, and despise the world in silence.

I don't hate my brother, as hard as it is to maybe admit to myself, I love him.

But that doesn't stop my brain from cheering inwardly when the Square reveals itself in front of us.

"Demetrios, I think it's time we-"

"We what, Cort?" he waves a hand in front of my eyes. When I blink up at him, I look back down at the ground and mumble a curse.

"Nothing." I shake my head and smile. _Dammit, I forgot to close up shop. _I shrug and try to appease my mind by focusing on everything else. Still, the worry lingers at the back of my mind, ruining any chance of a bit of peace.

Little things get to me, even if I try not to let them. He grips onto my shoulder to bid me a goodbye, but even that can't snap me out of this. Mr Wrens is going to be furious, he'll either dock my weekly salary in half, or even worse, cut it completely.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and move to my own section, shaking my head over and over. No point thinking on something I can't change, instead, I try to stare up at the two bowls centered up there, with all those slips filling the glass to the brim.

I wonder who it's going to be this year?

The escort, as per usual, is a mess. Frill and butterflies and everything else seems to explode off from her with each step. She doesn't seem to even be tuned into this disaster taking place, but being from the textiles district, those more vocal in their distaste moan under their breath from a few sections away.

Whatever, hurry this up. Maybe I can get back in time!

"Chiffon Vander, our lovely lady!"

Like last year, the girl's a runner. A pointless feat, one that ends in nothing but a few fists sent here and there, and then a girl left breathing heavily as she accepts defeat. I stare at her angry face, contorting with emotion after emotion. I should feel bad for her, maybe I do, but right now I just _want _this to be over and done with. I want to go ho-

"Septimius Cort!"

_Guess you aren't going home, buddy. _For some reason, the voice inside my head is Demetrios'. I find him gawping at me, not knowing how to react when all I can do is walk stiffly up to the stage with Peacekeepers flanking me from behind.

Blood wells up when I bite into my lip, but right now, I can't feel anything but... but what?

Chiffon stares at me, the whole of Eight stares at me, and yet all I can think about is how they're looking at me. The Capitol, through their cameras, finding entertainment from this.

Usually I don't care about what they have to think, but right about now, in this catastrophe, I think I can spare some anger for them.

_Don't show them what they want Cort, don't show them you're scared._

Don't worry, I cross my arms and glare out across the crowd. I won't.

* * *

**Dilara Donovan, 15 years old;  
District Eleven Female.**

* * *

A girl dressed from head to toe in grey, tattered rags, launches herself in my direction from a nearby alleyway. Stumbling and nearly falling, she settles her feet in front and stares up into my eyes.

"Do you have any change?" she asks with a cough, wiping something a startling shade of red from her lips. I sigh sadly and rummage around in my pockets, knowing the answer already. When I show her my empty palm, I shake my head and watch her face fall.

A part of that, the look in her eyes, the fact such a fragile thing is so broken, fractures whatever detachment I intended to walk into the Square with.

I've never been one for interacting with those who try, for some reason, to latch onto anyone nearby for a sense of comfort. Nothing about it is done out of malice, or anger, or fear about what this distant community could do to some unknown girl only spotted out and about once a year. It's out of the loneliness I've felt for too long.

It's a part of me, and I just wanted this day to be over and done with so I could go back home quickly, without causing too much of a fuss. But this, doe-eyed, pale, emaciated girl shatters that. I grip onto her hand, pulling her along gently.

"Where are we going?"

I stare at her for a second, before looking back up. Peacekeepers at the tables stare at the pair of us, one without their helmet spending a little too long on the little girl. Her rags regrettably smell rotten. He wrinkles his noise in disgust and whispers in his comrade's ear, the two sharing a joke.

If it wasn't someone who could take away what I have left, my clenched fist would be in his face. But for her, and myself, I take a deep breath and level my eyes with hers.

"Do you have a family?"

She bites her bottom lip sadly, shaking her head. _Neither do I. _"I live alone, would you like to come back to mine? I do well enough, I can give you some food to take back with you. Maybe offer you a place to sleep for the night."

Her distant, unattached eyes intensify the moment I let the words leave my mouth. Childish happiness, maybe what once lied within me, lights her face up in a warm flush. The grime covering her face almost wears away when she pulls me in for a hug, and at that second, I forget the smell and the dirt clinging to her. She's just a little girl in a bad, bad world. Like me. Like so many others.

"Move along." A larger girl pushes her aside to reach the table. Staring over her shoulder, she glares at me, then shakes her head at the girl with the same expression of disgust.

"Hey!" I shout, moving forwards. A Peacekeeper steps up too quickly, the same one from a second ago. Anger pulses inside my chest and again, the same desire to knock someone out radiates from within. But, for the little girl grasping for my hand, I swallow it down and move forwards.

Once we're processed, I help her along to the sidelines where she'll have to wait for me.

"You're up for the reaping, aren't you?"

I frown, nodding my head. Poor thing, soon she'll be eligible, soon it could her up on that stage with no one who even knows who she is. "I'll be back, don't worry. Nobody will hurt you, I won't let them."

Before she can say anything else to tempt me back, I move for my section. Once I'm there, the reaping begins the same way it always has. It continues with our flowery escort bouncing onto the stage, raining confetti on the terrified kids at the front.

I shake my head with rage, this is barbaric, what she stands for, what she does. The first slip is pulled and almost like a reflex, my fingers close, then open, sweat pooling from my brow as the nerves eat at me from within.

"Dilara Donovan!"

Dilara-

The name takes a moment to process fully. Dilara. Donovan. When it hits me, it's like a punch to the gut. All the breath is taken from me, things begin to blur and what once was a crowd of people becomes nothing but a sea of shapes and colours that are detached from one another.

Cameras click away distantly in my face, and somehow, through the pain inside my chest, I manage a shy smile. _I'm a tribute... but... the little girl..._

I look to where I told her to wait, but she isn't there. Another little boy stands in her place, holding onto his mother's hand.

If only mine was still around.

The crowd stare at me, an unknown entity amongst a community that most likely knows each other. No one seems to care enough to say anything except to nod their condolences.

I manage to shakily make it to the stage and stand there, staring out at them all.

It may not be much of a home, may not be a much of a life. It's unfair. How we're all treated.

But I'll make it back. I'm coming home.

* * *

**Thanks to ejbrown18, LokiThisIsMadness, conflicted battle scars and Remus98 for these four tributes.**

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

* * *

**Two days later, not one, but hey this is still great for someone who tends to prefer sleep, food and music to sitting down and doing something productive! Anyhow, hope you enjoyed this chapter. This marks the halfway point through the first batch of POVs for these tributes. **

**I should probably focus a bit on my other story, but the next chapter should be up in around four-five days, so that's not a long gap really. Thanks for reading, leave a review if you can :)**


	4. Calm Before the Storm

**Chapter Four.**

* * *

**Reapings, Part Two.**

* * *

**Leven Foxe, 17 years old;  
District Two Female.**

* * *

The Foxe household bursts into life the moment my two elder, twin brothers come rushing in through the door. Mother and father immediately relax with wide, soppy grins and hand the pair their breakfast; before, like a hurricane, they're out through the door and back to enjoying their plentiful lives.

Full of enthusiasm, full of life, full of talent. Full of everything I sit here, thinking about, thinking about my desires. The things that I can't seem to ever grasp.

"Leven dear, you better be leaving, don't want you being late." Mother smiles and comes closer to me, planting a delicate kiss on my forehead. Usually, it fills me with a relieving warmth that satisfies and chills whatever insecurities brew inside my stomach. Today, it only intensifies them with unrelenting strength.

It could be the last breakfast we have together, because... because they don't know, I haven't told them. When I stand up, sling my bag over my shoulder and turn to go, I take one last long look at the breakfast table. My eyes linger on the relaxed way my two parents stare at each other, then envelop into a hug.

Their connection is what's kept this family so perfect. Or, as perfect as they'd like to believe. Me, I'm just Leven, the second daughter, the youngest girl. What's been done a thousand times before doesn't matter when I do it.

So, that's why I have to leave this house and head to the reaping as the girl the District needs me to be. I hold my head high and smile brightly, even when my stomach starts to roil with nerves. People run around with a buzz only Two could feel. One, Four, they're as much a Career district as we are, but they don't seem to share quite the same passion as we do.

It's about competition, but camaraderie too. What you can do for yourself, and what you can do as a team. But only if it grows out of a love for what someone can do when holding a weapon. My branch of teamwork, it's not what they want. This society. If only they weren't so obstinate or judgmental, then maybe I wouldn't be so eager to throw my life down the drain.

_Don't be so pessimistic about your chances Leven. You were chosen after all. _I nod and walk onwards, with a deeper, rooted passion inside my stomach. It's a bit bright today for my liking, but maybe the sun shining in the air is a symbol for what lies in store. Maybe, the world is actually on my side, maybe it's telling me that this year is my year to be the Foxe member my parents want to talk about.

No more beautiful Marriott, no more tough, strong, capable Reese and Ronan, or brilliant, intellectual Carter. It'll be Leven, the Victor

Even I can't deny the thrill such a title fills me with, despite what getting to that spot means for me and my sanity. I've seen it before, and I'm not stupid enough to believe it won't happen to me. The worst things always do, because I'm just not cut out for-

_No._

I reach the Square, and like breakfast, things seem to go faster than usual. Maybe it's my desire to have this over and done with, or maybe it's fate's way of giving me less time to talk myself out of it. How can I question myself anyway, what with the Head trainer picking me over everyone.

That shows I have some merit, right? I'm skilled enough to be picked, so I'm skilled enough to win. _But what about all those Victors who have won without skill in combat, huh?_

Marriott waltzes on past and waves at me, smiling with her friends huddled round her. If only it was easy like her life. A perfect life. She doesn't seem to bend or break under the pressure of what life does to a person.

If only I could be her.

_Confidence. _I have to believe in myself. Otherwise, I'm dead. I don't want to die.

The reaping progresses onwards at the same fast pace as earlier. The Treaty is over with in what feels a matter of seconds, and the escort's hand is shoved straight into the bowl at a speed such a dramatic lady tends not to display.

It's time. If I don't do it this year, I'll never do it. Next year, I'll be so much more frightened, full of such disbelief in what I can do.

I'm not useless. I'm _not._

I can't be.

"I volunteer!" I shout, with as much confidence I can pour into the two words. If I can trick myself into believing that I'm like the other trainees I worked with, like I can kill without blinking, kill without letting who I am fall apart, then this is something I can do.

Or, I kill and lose everything I am.

Or, I die.

It all depends on me and my actions. The worst part is, I've never been that reliable.

* * *

**Alfie Caulfield, 15 years old;  
District Seven Male.**

* * *

It's easy to be overwhelmed by the masses, an ocean of Seven's citizens bobbing up and down to get to the same destination. United in their desperation to get this over with, most people move faster than they tend to usually do, which doesn't help those who aren't up to fight against the crowd.

Unlike most who do their best to contest with others, like this is a giant playground, I happily walk with my friends. Shoving my hands in my pockets, a jolly tune starts to play around in my head, and without caring for the abrasive shows demonstrated around me, a whistle starts to leave my mouth to match the song.

"Nice Alf'," Jasper says, laughing. He's panting to keep up, what with his chunky frame slowing him down. Harper and I do what friends should do and wait for him to keep up. All around me it's like the most basic show of humanity's aggression is playing on repeat for us. The lumberjacks fight for the right to be there first, wanting to impress the people that pay for their work, and then you have those who want to fit the crowd.

The smaller families even try to make a larger game of it, because distraction is better than putting up with reality. I understand where they're coming from, but instead of making a massive fuss, why not take it slow and enjoy the burning hot air of Seven's marvelous weather.

With the bird's singing their songs to match my whistling, and a light breeze to contest with the sun, disregarding the reaping, this is just another splendid day to be outside with my friends. Unless, of course, you have people like... him, ruining it for you.

Up front, another stupid chimp amongst the throngs of animals fighting for their place, is my big brother. One of my big brothers, and unfortunately, the worst of them all. Clyde is busy pummeling District Seven's biggest asshole into the dirt, before he instantly retaliates.

It's brutal and disgusting how they can roll around in the mud and not care. Maybe Harper and Jasper tease me for it, but my mother paid a lot of attention into making sure I looked somewhat presentable for today. Where there's cameras, there are people on the other end watching. That's what she said, brushing my hair and pulling my ear playfully.

I love my mother, if only the rest of Seven could be so understanding. So I don't cut down trees, so I don't look like a waddling buffoon corded with muscle, why can't I just be me? Still, what they say can't knock me down. Alfie Caulfield ain't the type of kid to let himself get bogged down so easily.

Once the three of us reach the Square, Harper pulls us into a hug before walking away to be with some of her 'girlfriends'. I watch them stare at the pair of us, giggling, before they do what girls their age do and fawn over people like my brother. It's hard to not be a little envious, but a part of me can't cope with that emotion, it means bad things, and I refuse to be put down by someone who's the epitome of what it is that's wrong with the world.

Clyde flexes for them and laughs jovially with his best friend. Together, they push through to the front of the line and disappear amongst the crowd. Easy for me now, without their distracting voices and the overwhelming irritation of their presence.

Now I can be with someone I care for, in a District that if I pretend is good, could maybe actually be a decent place to live. It's beautiful on the outside anyway, who cares what's on the inside if what I can see is big enough of a distraction?

Once past the Peacekeepers, our escort hurries the last few to walk on in and begins the process. For some strange reason, our otherwise sprightly Mayor resigns himself to letting our chipper Escort take his place. After reading the treaty, he mixes things up a bit and heads straight on over to the male reaping bowl.

My name is in there, Jasper's too. Two of my brothers'. It could be anyone I know, I just hope that maybe, today, life actually shows how it can be a good thing without me having to make an excuse.

"Alfie Caulfield!"

Or, the complete opposite.

Almost like a switch is flicked on, my eyes and mouth widen with shock. With my jaw hanging down, I can't quite process a proper reaction. All eyes turn to me, everyone, people I know and like, people I dislike, and people I fail to recognise.

Then things register, and my mind goes a fragmented vision of red and black.

On the ground, hiding and bundled into a ball, maybe they'll ignore me. All I wanted was to live my life the way I wanted it to be, without caring how I should have been. But no. Life's thrown this in my face and now, everyone will laugh at poor little Alfie Caulfield.

Hands grab me and soon enough I'm on the stage, but strangely enough when I focus on everyone, it's silence. Not even Clyde says a word.

For once they don't see me as the laughing stock, they see me as a poor victim.

I'm not sure which is the worst.

* * *

**Sayla Reinhardt, 15 years old;  
District Ten Female.**

* * *

Outside, I'm almost blown back by Xander's arrival. He stares at me with narrowed, angry eyes; a red hue to his cheeks. I laugh and poke him, eliciting nothing more than a deeper, angrier stare until his eyes are almost completely hidden from me.

"What did we say to each other?" he crosses his arms, and my eyes immediately move over his shoulder. At this angle, the sun peeks between two clouds, a flock of birds forming beautiful shapes as they weave together through the streams of light.

There's a weird tang to the air, like desperation, but also happiness. Fake, maybe. I hope not, it's good for people to be united in something real, something they can experience together. Not anger, anything but a state that puts people into emotions that tear relationships apart.

"Sayla," Xander's voice softens a tad as he clicks his fingers in front of my eyes. I stare at him and shake my head, abandoning my train of thought. Maybe I should try to focus a bit more, especially since it's reaping day.

"Hm?" His eyes grow wider with concern, and gripping onto my hand gently, the fury leaves him in time to an invasion of a relatable sense of warmth. I sink into that and let him guide me down the streets. In a state of peace internally, I listen in silence to him mutter in a whisper-like voice about his day, about yesterday, and then when I offer a little bit of input, about his own family's well-being.

"You know you were supposed to meet me at my house, instead I had to come to yours. Across town, today, Sayla. You know how busy it gets at this time." Rather than raise his voice, he laughs and knocks a shoulder into my side. Immediately, I react and poke him, giggling quietly. It's nice when it's just me and him: friends.

Sometimes he can drag me around on escapades that never end well, and counteract with how I generally like to go about life here, but today's events have mellowed him out somewhat.

Me and him, peacefully chatting about anything, it keeps my mind at a constant rate of tranquility. When I can think through things clearly, whole other possibilities shine through. Like, what we could do after the reaping, maybe we could go into the centre of town and meet up with my other friends.

They don't like Xander, but it'll be fun. The gang. Maybe we can talk about ourselves or stuff like that, relaxed topics, stuff about nature and things that don't corrupt such a blessing as having a life.

You know, sometimes, it's nice to just be with the people I care most about-

"Sayla."

Again, his voice breaks through and I stare into the eyes of a Peacekeeper. A cry manifests itself and is canceled out by a choking sensation at the back of my throat. "S-Sorry, I was just-"

"Doesn't matter, cut it out and step forwards."

"I will, give me a moment." I pat down my dress, but before I can finish, he yanks me forwards before Xander can do anything.

"I said now."

I stare into his maniacal eyes and spit, slapping him away. "And I said in a minute. I know you have a schedule, but I'm-"

He stabs me with the needle and I shriek, falling forwards when his palms stretch out to force me in the direction the crowd move in. Xander's pulled away with the crowd of guys, moving him along towards where he has to wait during the reaping. I stare at him and frown, sadly dragging my feet towards my own section.

I shouldn't have reacted like that, he just caught me wrapped up in my own head. It was a short walk, talking to Xander must have made things go a lot faster than usual. It's nice, being with him. Better than those awful authoritarians who preach peace and stab us in the fingers!

Euphrasia, another close friend, smiles when I reach her side. We wait standing next to each other for the Mayor to welcome us all.

"Where were you?"

"With Xander, some Peacekeeper got a bit antsy with me." I laugh the situation off and stare up at the Escort, taking over from the Mayor. Euphrasia closes her eyes tight, gripping onto her dress. This is the worst moment for her, I don't like seeing her so stressed. It only makes things worse for me. When others are stressed, it's like it eats away at me, pulling and tugging on my heart and forcing the breath to leave me in short bursts.

Why can't everything just go at the right pace, the right time? Why can't people get along and just be ordinary; humans in a society that works together in some kind of unified manner?. Why can't-

I feel a hand on my shoulder, a rough, gloved hand. Then I look up and I'm met with a sheet of black metal, the visor of a Peacekeeper.

"Sayla Reinhardt, move it."

It's the Peacekeeper from before. I look around and all eyes are on me. Me, little Sayla Reinhardt.

Why are they staring at me? I haven't done something wrong have... I...

Oh...

The force of my situation knocks the wind right from my lungs. My fists ball up, my eyes clench together and somehow, I will the tears back, even when my entire body protests.

I'm a tribute. I was... reaped.

Is this some kind of irony? Send in the most unprepared girl, the girl who talks about topics to combat the ideology of the Games, the girl who just wants peace.

The girl who now, won't survive to make it home.

A girl destined to die.

* * *

**Ash Rowe, 14 years old;  
District Twelve Male.**

* * *

Today, of all days, is when she sinks deeper into her shell.

I open the front door and stare over my shoulder, lingering for the sake of my mother. Maybe this year's reaping, she'll finally snap out of it. Her deep state of longing, her lost, shattered soul reminiscing over everything she lost to my despicable father. Abandoning us, five years ago on the very day that two kids were taken away, it reminds her that this isn't just the day I could be taken. It was the day she lost someone she loved.

"Bye mum," I wave cheerfully, embedding the smile onto my face whether my body wills it or not. If she can't smile, then I'll do the smiling for her. There are times when it's hard to be the rock people can depend on, when there's the issue of my own problems, my own day to day troubles, I need to vent on someone.

But, if everyone else needs to let go of their daily worries, I can't. I'm the person that these people depend on, even if it whittles me down day by day.

Kolten immediately finds me amongst the crowd, smiling at me with a skip in his step. I quickly return the greeting and together we join the overanxious throngs of citizens, heading through the dusty air to another ceremony, another day to see two kids get sent off to die.

Optimism only lasts so long in this world. Twelve's chances have never been high. We never forget the truth.

"Wanna hang out after this shitfest is over, maybe get some alcohol?" Kolten's eager jump may fool other people, but it doesn't cloud my own judgment. He's transferring his own state of anger at this system by attempting to act older than his, maybe drink away his sorrows.

I laugh and pat him on the back, knocking him forwards. "Booze, really? We're fourteen Kol', let's not drink ourselves to an early grave."

"Too true, why speed up the process when this country's doing it for us?"

I look into his cheerful eyes, still shining despite the pain hidden away tight. I nod my head sadly and swing my arms back and forth. Some people, like Kolten and I, are better at locking away our true emotions and letting the world see the mask that suits the current state of what's best to feel.

It makes life easier, when you can be the person people can rely on. Besides, if everyone was depressed, there'd be no such thing as a well needed light.

"Ha look," I point at Claude, one of the newbies dressed head to toe in the Peacekeeper uniform. Except for the helmet. "He can't even dress himself properly."

The guy fumbles for whatever it is that will clasp the helmet to his suit and repeatedly fails, cursing when his finger catches on something. "Hey, need a hand?" I yell, laughing. Other people less occupied with a deep rooted, reaping funk, chuckle when they see what I'm directing my attention towards.

He stares up at me and blushes, shaking his head. "Just w-who do you think you are kid, get in line."

"Maybe I should be Peacekeeper-ing instead of this chump," I stare at the crowd and throw a thumb in his direction, soaking in the general laughter. People who were staring at the ground, finally direct their attention towards the idiotic Peacekeeper.

Maybe it's bad to pick fun of someone who's only doing his job, but I hate the Capitol as much as Kolten, only its easier to transfer the blame onto easily accessible people. Plus, someone so inept at dressing himself won't be a problem in the near future.

There hasn't been a whipping in years.

Finally, we get to the Square, with the crowd drawn apart by more livelier and well adjusted Peacekeepers. We're ushered through, separated and soon enough, the process begins.

As usual our Mayor drones on without any real enthusiasm, and once again our Escort makes up for it with a show of flamboyance and a spray of glitter or some crap like that. Drama can be fun in moderation, I draw the line at sparkly shit.

"Riva Buchanan!"

The chosen girl is a looker, that much you can tell. She stands shaking up on stage, but through some well built strategy, or maybe a barrier to her true feelings, she smiles. Good on her, I guess. Show them we're strong!

"Ash Rowe!"

_Smile, like Riva._

That's the first thought, nothing about death or blood or gore. Things are hard to make sense of straight away, but piece by piece like a jigsaw, it starts to come together. If I smile, I won't fall apart to these thoughts. Thoughts I don't want to think, a darkness I refuse to let in.

"I volunteer!"

And Kolten, my best friend, my stupid, idiot friend, shoves his hand in the air.

When he starts to run to the stage, my feet kick into action and I propel myself forwards faster. Up near the microphone, I shake my head and shout out, letting the smile slip: "No volunteers. I accept my place as tribute."

And like that, I've sealed my fate.

But I won't let a friend die for me. That's the one good thing I can do before I fall for such a corrupt state. I can save a life.

* * *

**Thanks to jessicallons-y, Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg, Aspect of One and Jalen Kun for these four tributes.**

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

* * *

**So, I keep saying I'm going to go focus on my other story, then this tempts me too much and I ignore that in favour of this. Oh well!**

**To those twenty or so submitters who haven't commented so far, it'd be great to hear from you. Obviously, for whatever reason, it's fine if you don't have the time or whatever, and I'm not one to threaten the whole 'ur trib is a bb if u dont review!', but yeah, it'd be cool to hear whatever you have to say so far about this Games' tributes! And to those who haven't got a tribute but read, the same goes for you, I'm always interested to hear different opinions :D**

**Thanks to the few that are reviewing, means a lot :)**


	5. Bid Adieu

**Chapter Five.**

* * *

**Goodbyes, Part One.**

* * *

**Dario Marston, 18 years old;  
District Two Male.**

* * *

_Inhale. Exhale. Inhale..._

The door to my room hits the back wall. My line of sight moves up from the ornate rug and onto Juno, her beautiful eyes swimming with tears. They light up the flush in her cheeks, and before I can croak out anything, she's running towards me with her arms wide open.

I take another deep breath and meet her embrace, placing a hand on her back. Oh Juno. My Juno. My hand moves to her hair, tangled, messy, so unlike my girlfriend.

If only this wouldn't cause her so much pain; if only she could be blinded like so many others. Just this once, be the girl I never wanted her to be. Shallow and absorbed in the idea of what this victory could do. Then maybe this wouldn't be so goddamn difficult.

"You did it then," she sniffs and wipes the back of her hand across her nose. I pull away and nod, shying back into my seat. A thousand and one ways of declaring my regret, my sadness, my guilt manifest inside my head, and all that comes out is a simple sigh of defeat.

She understands, I understand. It's something I've accepted despite the pain of Juno's reactions. I'm not here to have fun, or to arrogantly bombard the Capitol with my face shoved in every camera. I'm not here for the showmanship of being a Career tribute.

I'm here for the two of us. She knows that, but it doesn't make it any less hard on her.

"I had to," I whisper, putting my head in my hands. I feel her thin, dainty fingers wrap round my calloused, dark skinned hand. I look up and try to put some sense of happiness I'm sure all the other Careers feel when in my position.

I bet... I bet he felt it. Sitting here. Juno's brother, when it was his turn.

_How could you do this to her? She lost a brother, and now she might lose you._

She won't lose me. I shake my head silently and watch confusion tear apart Juno's sad face. I'm not usually this conflicted about anything, I try to do things straight to the point, take them as they come and deal with them head on. So many people are so forward thinking about the way life has to go, there's no impulsive edge to them.

Maybe that will be my strength here.

Or maybe it will be what gets me killed.

"You won't die Dario, I won't let you die."

"If only it were that simple," I add. Automatically, an alarm goes off inside my head and I inwardly berate myself. _Idiot. _I'm not supposed to show doubt at myself, it doesn't help the situation, it doesn't help Juno.

Besides... I let my eyes drift down to my hands, my arms, my legs. How long have I trained for this? It wasn't supposed to reach the point of volunteering, but it always had to lead to something. The Games are the end of this story, but hopefully, the beginning of another.

I just have to win first, I have to be someone special, even when I've never felt like that kind of person.

"Get them to love you, like I do. Get everyone to see how great you are. How Dario is the one person they _need _to see come out of that Arena."

I nod, disbelief swarming my body. "I'll try. You know I've never been that good at... well, that kind of stuff."

"Then play up the fact you are strong, knock some skulls together, make it out that you can't wait to spill some blood." Her face immediately flinches, because Juno, maybe like me, has always had a fragile heart in the sense of the true nature of the Games. I can't help but shake my head forcefully, despite knowing the strength behind such a strategy when words will fail me.

"I can't. I'm not that kind of Career either. I'm not some charismatic, air-headed idiot. Or some ruthless, psychopath. I'm here for my own reasons, you know that, why can't they?"

"Because sob stories rarely work for those from the other Districts. Maybe for twelve year olds. For Careers they don't want to hear about how you've had a hard life, or what this victory will do for your well being. How it will save you..."

I shake my head again. I can't... I look up at her and let her finish what she has to say. Juno was always the one voice inside my head, and on the outside, that could get me to do what had to be done. Even if there was always a part of me that couldn't.

"They want to see someone they can root for. They want a killer."

The problem is, I've never felt like one.

Maybe I can kill, but I won't enjoy it. I won't be the person they want me to be.

I can't. It's impossible.

* * *

**Celeste Damount, 17 years old;  
District Six Female.**

* * *

_Smile through the pain, _I repeat, over and over inside my head. Most people in my position would be thinking the exact opposite. From the moment we step foot into the Capitol, it's all about holding back the tears. Now is our one chance to let it all out.

But me, this _is _who I am. If I don't smile the agony away, or the bitter taste burning at the back of my throat, or the way my lungs constrict and heart palpitates at an unhealthy rhythm, then I'll lose whatever small grip is keeping me anchored to the very happiness I'm trying to smile with.

_Smile, keep smiling, never stop smiling. _

Charles seemed nice. For a big, intimidating fella he seemed approachable. I focus on these things, relatable, easy to handle things rather than the massive, threat of an agonizing, painful, inescapable death looming over my head...

_Smile._

The door is thrown open, and in pours the Damount family.

My brothers are first through; slim, lithe boys, but with sadness overwhelming their usual laid back attitude, all care and caution is cast away. Throwing their arms round my shoulders, I blink back tears that brim in the corners of my eyes and laugh them away.

"You're still- Oh Celeste, you were always a daft girl." Cimmeron pulls back with red, puffy eyes; tear streaks mingling with whatever else is coming from his nose and lips. Crimson puts a hand on his brother's shoulder and leans down to face me, through the gap he creates I see my mother and father standing side by side, gawping with wide, frantic eyes at me.

Tears start to cascade down my cheeks, meeting the corners of my lips as they grow ever deeper into the freckles on my cheeks. My family helped me through everything, even if they never really understood why I acted the way I did in my everyday, boring, but happy life.

I'd be broken if it weren't for them, and now I'm being dragged away... to die...

"Mum," I whisper, gripping onto my dress. My brothers pull away and make room for my parents to swoop on in, draping protective arms round my shoulders to rock and cradle a girl sent off to die. I feel the smile wavering, regardless of my own mantra repeating itself; how I need to keep smiling for some semblance of sanity.

Positivity was always what kept me grounded, gave me a much needed kick in the right direction. Hope is important, especially in Panem.

"Who's going to help you in the shop now, mum?" I laugh, wiping the back of my hand along my nose. She drapes a curl of dark hair behind my ear, pressing her lips to my forehead. Father strokes my back and envelops me in the strong, tight hug that always made me believe in the importance of family.

Even through our differences, these people are what mean the most to me out of every single living thing in my life.

I can't conceive of a group of people I'd ever feel so close to, regardless of my friends, of what I like to put out to others, it's me and my family against the world. Now it's just me.

"We'll figure something out, maybe your brothers can stop being so lazy and give their dearest mother a hand."

"Fat chance," Cimmeron laughs and rolls his eyes. Leading Crimson, the two of them join our parents in wrapping me up in a thick, warm, bundle of hugs and kisses. Tears drip down our faces and land in my lap, soaking through the thin, blue checkered material of my dress.

It doesn't matter, though. It doesn't matter how I look on the outside, it matters how I get to spend my last moments. I didn't want them to cry for me, but they're still laughing, they're still showing me their smiles. It means their hope hasn't gone, that even if it is fake, there's still a shred of something that mirrors the way I acted around each of them.

If they can hold onto that, then so can I.

"I'll miss you all, even you Crimson."

"Who's going to wake you up at ridiculous o'clock in the morning, or put salt in your juice. Or, or-" he cuts off when the door opens. None of us need to look to see who it is, we already know.

"Time's up," I say, standing from the chair. They move in time to my own body and stare at me, their eyes lingering on what must be a face streaked with tears.

I don't care.

I never cared for that. I only cared for them and the people around me.

That's all that mattered. And maybe, they can be what motivates me to come home. The one way a little girl like me, the type who never makes it back, can win the Hunger Games.

* * *

**Evander Eldegwy, 17 years old;  
District Nine Male.**

* * *

Sometimes I hate the man in front of me. For those short few seconds where I picture the life I could have had, with grief non-existent, like any normal family. Then I remember them. My sister, my mother, and there's no going back.

I owe my life to him. For what it's worth, he's my father, and I have to do him proud.

When he takes the first few steps towards me, I sit stoically in the sit and stare at him. His approach is slow paced, his features are as blank as ever, expressionless and emotionless as he's always taught me.

Then a fist, a single, well timed fist darts to my face and I bring my own hand up. Quickly, with reflexes timed to the tee, I grip his hand and twist.

Unlike other people, my father, in these brief moments, breaks out in the smallest of grins. A curl of his lips and his face is set back into the controlled expression he's always worn. I shift my back straight and place my hands on my knees, staring into his eyes.

I hope I've done him proud, truly. After everything we've been through together, the years of pain, the years of molding me into the one thing he truly needs – we truly need – I feel like I've finally achieved his desires.

I hope so.

"You held yourself well." He finally breaks the cool silence and drags a chair to my level. Sitting down, he presses both hands together and stares into my eyes. Sharp like a snake, it's almost like he's analyzing my exterior and interior, looking for a chip or crack that he can call me out on. Even though this is our last moments together before I go off to the Capitol, he'll always be my trainer before my father.

I love him. But does he love me?

_Of course he does. He's just been through a lot._

I stare into his eyes without flinching, and once he's satisfied, he leans back and takes out something from his pocket. It's jewelery of some sort, but once I get a better look at it when it's placed into my palm, the breath hitches in my throat.

"It was your sister's. I want you to have it, to remind you why you're going in there and what all these hard years have been for."

I nod and take it, politely bowing my head once more before placing it round my neck and resting it on my chest. Father leans forwards and grips onto one of my hands.

Inwardly, something flinches at that. Something deep down, maybe the boy I used to be, the boy that was terrified of this new, monstrous man. The boy that wanted love. The boy somewhere, I still am. The other side knocks this back and I continue to stare at his eyes, as if unaware of his touch.

Robotic.

"You make them pay, for what they did to your sister. For what they caused your mother to do. You're ready. Your reflexes are superb, I've never seen you hit away my attack so fast. You're mentally strong. You do what must be done for the sake of _our _vengeance on the people that tore our family apart."

"I will, father." I nod my head and feel his fingers slip away from mine.

"You'll do me proud in there, I know you will. The Careers tortured your sister brutally, they snuffed out such an innocent, beautiful life. Your mother couldn't bear to be apart from her, they killed her too, indirectly. You make sure to kill each and every one of them. They're monsters son, monsters don't deserve any pity."

"Monsters don't deserve any pity," I repeat.

"I believe in you, Evander. I believe you'll make it out alive with our mission complete and we can finally be the family your mother always wanted."

_And you father, did you ever want us to be a family...?_

"Of course, I'll win for you, and we'll finally have made them pay."

He stands up to go, without the door being opened and him ushered out. I expected this from him. With words dedicated to nothing but my years of getting ready for this one day, the one day I could volunteer and achieve our goal in life, he was always going to focus on that more than the fact that maybe I could... die.

But I won't.

I can't.

_I'm just a boy, _I think, flinching for the brief moment his back is turned. Then his eyes move over his shoulder and I freeze up.

"I love you son."

_I love you too, Dad._

And a second later, he's gone.

* * *

**Riva Buchanan, 18 years old;  
District Twelve Female.**

* * *

"Lovely curtains." Mother walks past them, brushing her hands through the light, frilly material. When she looks in my direction, I see the pain corrupting her face. Her eyes, her beautiful eyes, widen and soften with tears that light up her eyelashes.

She's distracting herself from the pain. If only this weren't happening, to me, why... why me...

I extend a hand which she quickly grasps, sinking to my level. Father steps closer and places a gentle, comforting hand on her shoulder. With Alvin, my older brother, lingering behind his own, for once my family is mutual in their peace to one another.

No arguments, not when I'm off to the Capitol. Where I'm going to be...

_Why me?_

"You're a tough girl Riva, resourceful. You know what's what and who's who."

I laugh and stroke my father's hand, lacing my fingers with his. Alvin steps up and nods. He's always been a distant kind of guy, receptive to himself and other people outside our little Buchanan unit, but within he's always been a bit of a nuisance. Still, it doesn't take away any ounce of love. Nothing ever could.

This is my wonderful family, and they're taking them away from me. Taking me away from them.

"My chances aren't nil, at least. I mean, what were the chances of me being chosen anyway. If I was chosen with those odds, I have a better chance at winning, right?"

"Course darling," he replies, squeezing my shoulder. My words and feelings feel detached, today. For some reason the emphasis of what it is I want to believe doesn't quite sink in properly.

I do have a chance, everyone does. A bigger chance at winning than it was being reaped. Why shouldn't I be optimistic about my chances? Why not take it as it comes, see some sort of hope amongst the nightmares of an unknown, but dark future?

"It's not stupid, to believe, right? I can do this..."

If I sound so unsure of myself, why should anyone else believe in me? I straighten up, as if my body reacts to the idea brewing in the back of my head. No one else, sitting in the same position as me, all across the country, deserves to die at such a young age. We're all united in our situation, even the Careers, brainwashed by such an oppressive system.

There's no way out but to kill. Something I don't think I can do. But something I have to... right?

"I can do this." I say, much more for myself than anyone else. No one else truly deserves to die, there's not a soul alive that someone should wish such a fate on. We're all human beings in our own right, those that corrupt our country, and those that try to save it.

It doesn't matter, though. I have to do what has to be done for my own life.

As hard as it is.

"R-Remember when you were little, you used to get into those little play-fights with Leila. You always won," Alvin laughs quietly behind our father. When he turns to face his eldest and only son, his face isn't one of anger, or disappointment like it usually is. It's one of gratitude. He's doing what he can for me, because... because they're belief isn't as strong as they're putting out there.

Alvin's doing his part for a girl they don't see coming back.

I'm the only one in this family that ever believed good could come out of anything, that there was a spark of a chance in everything. It doesn't matter who you are, there's always a chance, a slither of something.

There's a chance for me to win. Everyone has a fair shot at taking the crown, so why can't it be me?

I'm not stupid. I'm not useless. I'm not someone who will let everyone else push me around.

I'm just me.

"You know what," I say, grinning and standing up. Father and mother move back, Alvin being pushed along as well to form a small audience in front of me. They all stare at me, wiping away tears and smiling through the sadness.

I feel their pain, their agony, I've always felt tuned into those I love and their emotions. But this is one emotion I can have for myself, the one emotion I can cherish because it's what will get me through this alive.

Hope.

If I believe it can happen, it will happen. I have the determination to do what must be done, do the things against who I really am, because it means I'll come out alive.

"I'm coming home," I smile, locking eyes once more with each of those dearest to me. They'll see me again. I'll make sure of it.

* * *

**Thanks to ****Munamana, ****Vaan Levy, Atashi Desu and Lupus Overkill for these four tributes.**

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

* * *

**Later update than usual. I wanted a little break from all this fanfiction writing stuff. Reading is always fun, sometimes I like to take a step back from writing and do absolutely nothing! Lazy days are great!**

**Anyway, only four more tributes to go and you'll have seen everyone. Alongside the last pre-Capitol chapter I'll have a poll up, so that'll be fun to see with all the results and stuff. Thanks for sticking with me, reading, reviewing and all that. Keep it up, and see ya next chapter!**


	6. Wishes

**Chapter Six.**

* * *

**Goodbyes, Part Two.**

* * *

**Tallis Altier, 18 years old;  
District One Female.**

* * *

He's proud of me now. Sitting here, sent off to fight to the death, following my siblings footsteps. He has to be proud, finally. After all these years, it's now me here.

He _must _be proud of me. I'm finally the girl he wanted me to become.

"My darling Tallis," he strides on in, holding his head high, shoulders pulled back as he wraps me into a quick hug. I smile brightly and pat his back, shaking with the laughter that breaks out of his throat.

It's hard to feel as sprightly as he's acting, especially when Mother walks in with Nydia behind her. As usual, my younger sister does nothing but roll her eyes and stare at her nails, but my mother... my poor mother.

She's wiping her eyes, shaking with fear and sadness. Sadness because of me going off to... die. And fear because of the sadness. An Altier doesn't feel like breaking down over such a proud moment. An Altier child going off to the Games is an honor, not something to cry over, but something to accept with enthusiasm.

"I'm going to make you proud daddy," I shout out loud, clapping my hands together. I swing around and slip back into my chair, rocking forwards with a smile.

It's good to see him happy and content with my actions. Despite the nerves, I can't help but feel a level of acceptance now. It's always been about feeling like the right kind of person for other people, and with his smile, it makes me smile. Maybe the reasons are wrong behind it all, but making someone else feel special, makes it impossible not to feel special yourself.

"You show them what we Altiers can do!"

"Dying. That's what they do."

I gasp, slapping a hand to my mouth.

Nydia stares up at my father with the same boredom etched into her face. She stares back down at her nails then back up into my father's narrowed eyes. Red creeps up the lines of his neck and takes complete control where there once was a smile.

_She's right, that's all they ever do in the Games. _I stare at her expression and shake that thought away. I'm going to break that, I'm going to be the girl that does make it out alive. The girl that does bring this family the reputation it deserves after all the hard work my father has poured into making us a great household.

_Great? Killing his own children is great? _I close my eyes tight and blink away tears that brim in the corners of my eyes. This is what I want. This is! _No it isn't, it's what he wants. _

"What did you say, Nydia?"

"Altiers die. They volunteer, they fight, then they die. Tallis will be the third to die, she's the least skilled out of us all. But me," she shakes her hair away from her face and jabs a finger to her chest. Arrogant. Conceited. Deluded. That's always been my sister. "I won't die. When it's my turn, I'll finally be the daughter you've always wanted."

Mother almost launches herself at her youngest, and only manages to hold herself when I give her a quick glance behind my father's back. She can't show how much this tortures her. Not with the reaction she'll get from him.

I'm making someone I love happy, and making some else I love completely heartbroken. How am I supposed to wrap my head round that? It's a mess of contradictions.

I want to be here, for him.

I want to be over there, for her.

"Tallis won't die. Not my baby girl. She's tough!"

"As tough as Amori and Oren? I don't think so."

I stare at her and then look back down into my lap. It's true. I'm not the kind of person either my elder siblings were. They were stronger, better looking, a whole load of qualities I want for myself because it only feels right.

I want what they had. The attention, it makes me feel like it's all worth it. Slaving over being the best of the best, pushing myself to the limit, being the daughter my father can be proud of.

Maybe it's a good thing, I'm not like them.

They did die, after all. Maybe I can be the first person to make it out alive from this family because I am the very thing I'm trying hard not to be: the different one.

"I can do this, Nydia. You're either with me, or against me. And being who you are, I'd love it if you were with me. We're sisters."

"I'll believe in you when you give me something to believe in."

I smirk and cross my arms over my chest, pushing everything Career training taught me into the one thing I can get right. My appearance. My attitude. "Watch and learn, little sister. Come the Games, I'll prove to you and everyone what I can do. And have a good time doing it."

She rolls her eyes again, but this time it quietens her down. My mother continues to fight the urge to sob, and my father rounds back on me to shower me with praises.

Words that fill me up with the feeling I've always dreamt of. Now all I need to do is win these Games.

It'll be difficult, but I'm made for challenges.

I was made to be a Victor.

* * *

**Sheen Howell, 18 years old;  
District Four Male.**

* * *

Before I have the chance to take things in, Glamour's arms wrap round my back and throw me into the wall.

"Woah there," I laugh breathlessly. She pulls away and smirks through the thick drapes of honey hair that mess up her face. She blows a strand away and moves backwards, allowing me breathing room.

"Sorry," she blushes awkwardly and looks back at the door. In the wake of her almost impossibly fast arrival, the Peacekeeper stares stunned at her, and unlike some of the others, seems more amused than angry at being forced to the side.

"Sorry mate!" She shouts, laughing.

"This is it then," I say, smiling. She looks back down at the chair I've only had a second to really get acquainted with. Instead of the usual policy, she sits down and I stand up, watching the different emotions flicker on and off my best friend's face. It's safe to say this decision has made her ecstatic that all the years of training have worked for me, and sad that this could... well, be our last goodbye.

_A career doesn't think like that. _I can't feel doubt, I know it. Past years of mental training, all the preparation come back into the forefront of my mind and I shake away any of those frightened thoughts that eat away from the inside. Years of feeling undervalued, the mockery, the scorn, it's left its impact.

This is my way of shoving a giant middle finger to those bastards who pushed me around. I was chosen. Not them. The medic, the smart one, the guy no one thought had a chance at making it through the vigorous training regime.

Well, look how things turned out!

"I don't want you to get deprived in there, Sheen." Glamour laughs and throws some more of her hair over her shoulder. "Unless the Arena is a library, you might have to hold back for a bit. Until you get home."

"I know," I laugh again and bend down so my eyes are level with hers. "I'll do the thing Careers do, what you helped me learn, and I'll be back here before you know it. I don't plan on leaving you alone, or my father. You both need me."

"So arrogant, this is a new Sheen." She pushes me away playfully. Laughing together, I run a hand through my hair. I feel all sweaty, something the Capitol won't appreciate from one of their star players. Better take a proper wash before I get there.

Running up to the stage not only took the breath from me, it put everything into perspective. The bullying, the way I patched together my father's life, then ripped it from him because my aspirations were much higher than simply being a way for our broken lives to gain some sense of money. It was selfish of me, but he still, after everything, gave me his blessing.

This is for him. I never really thought about it when offered the chance of being the tribute, but the money, it'll do us good. Not only do I get a chance to prove to everyone that intelligence can preside over sheer brutality, I also get to patch together the years of pain that we've had to go through together.

It's a win-win situation.

_Unless you lose._

"Don't go getting soft on those other Careers. I've seen you around, with Marble and those softies. You show them what's what but you do it with that stupid, adorable face. Don't let anyone get into that big heart of yours. Not where you're headed, alright?"

"Since when were you my mentor?" I laugh and jab her shoulder, eliciting another round of those high-pitched, enthusiastic, beautiful laughs.

"Like, er, forever!"

"Oh yeah," she pushes me again and soon enough, it's like the years of growing up together merge into one last moment of best friends being in the same room. It's going to be hard being away from the people I care most about, but this is all for the greater good.

I have what it takes to be the best of the best in the Games, to give the Capitol what they want, but maybe also make a statement. You don't have to be a bad person to do what must be done for victory. To go through the Hunger Games, you can retain your morals, a sense of humanity.

I can show them all that. I can show them that my brain is my strength, and that it's the greatest weapon there is.

Glamour's right, I have to show some boundaries. I can't let it get to my head and ruin my chances.

But the chance is still there. A great chance. One of the highest chances out of all the tributes. It's my chance to win the Games. My chance to be what I've always wanted in life.

To be recognized.

* * *

**Chiffon Vander, 15 years old;  
District Eight Female.**

* * *

I hum to myself, slowly swinging my legs back and forth from my position at the back of the room. The small chair gives me ample opportunity to take in the richness of the room; delicate, laced curtains with silvery decorations hanging from the window frames.

Paintings with golden carvings line the walls, and just by the door, a bust of the President smugly stares in my direction. _What I wouldn't do to kick his giant, stony ass, _I think, grinning. The door finally opens and in walks my mother, twitching to herself with giant strides that soon swallow me up whole.

"Mot-" I try to breathe through the gaps that accompany her breathing. In and out, I slowly shake my way free and stand, staring at her. Her face is streaked with tears, body wracking with loud sobs that rattle off the walls.

I hate seeing her like this. Broken. It's been too long, too much heartbreak in her life. One woman can't bear so much pain in such a short lifespan. I stare at the sweat glistening on her face, tears bearing down her cheeks and run back into her arms. Sometimes love is suffocating, but sometimes you bear the pain for those you care about.

Quickly, she smothers me up once more into a tight embrace and I stand there, accepting it for what it is. Perhaps the last moment I'll see my mother. Ever. She might see me buried deep in a box, left to rot under the dirt, but I won't see her.

Unless, I win.

Unless, a girl from Eight manages to do it and make it back, ten years since the last girl made it home. _Maybe I can, _I think to myself. The determination is quite relaxing. A buzz fills my stomach and slowly, I peel my mother off from me and stand there, staring at her with a thin smile.

"Why are you so... so happy darling?" her chin quivers and she takes a fraction of a step back in my direction. This time I raise my hand and shake my head forcefully. A steely sense of determination begins to brew inside my stomach, filling my veins with fire that travels all the way from my head to my toes.

"If I can kick the shit out of a Peacekeeper, I'm pretty sure this'll be a piece of cake." I stare at the bust again and picture myself shattering that smug son-of-a-bitch's face. Oh, the joy of watching him burn and suffer for once.

Watch everything he cares for fall into nothing. The way I'd love to shatter that stupid, fucking piece of rock that probably cost more than my house and everything I own put together. "Mother, you'll see me again. I love you, and that's enough, alright? So don't go counting me out yet, I'll see this race out to the end."

"But darling, you're not a killer-"

I shake my head and frown, "I know, I'm not a killer or a fucked up Career. I'm just a girl from Eight with a bad past and an incredible mother. But that's enough, okay?"

I walk over to the bust and rest a hand on the pillar that supports it. Smirking back at my mother over my shoulder, I nod my head and gently bring my hand back, and quick as a flash, smack the rock into the wall. At first, it doesn't break, but with another heave up and in the direction of another stupid statue smirking in my direction, the two collide and break into rocky, pointed shards.

The noise rouses the attention of the buffoon at the door. It opens and with one look, he shouts in my direction.

"That's what I'm going to do to anyone that stops me. Break them. When you take a person away from those they love, you can damn well bet your sorry ass that they'll do all they can to make it home. Watch me."

And with such a simple gesture, such a simple action, I flip the Peacekeeper off and let the shock show on his face. He doesn't take to it too kindly, but what can he do now that I'm such a prized possession of the Capitol?

Strike me, he'll lose his hand. Or maybe that ugly head of his.

But he does take something, and with a firm hand on my mother's elbow, he guides her out before I can even attempt to pull her back.

"I love you!" I shout as the door slams shut.

Love might not be the only thing that'll get me back here alive. But _that_ will. I look over at the shattered remains of the President's beloved bust and laugh.

I fight for what I believe in. The things I want.

Victory is next on my list.

* * *

**Cayden Armani, 18 years old;  
District Ten Male.**

* * *

Father places a hand on my shoulder. Smiling through tears that curl down the wrinkles on his cheeks, he pulls me closer, my head resting against his stomach.

"My son..." he manages to croak out. I look away and shake the beginnings of what will be my undoing. If I break down like he does, I doubt there's anything that'll get me to stop. As hard as it is, I bottle it up and put on my winning smile, turning to him and pulling away as gently as I can.

"It's not over yet dad, don't you have any faith in me?"

He looks momentarily shocked, blanching at me with his mouth hanging open. It takes a second for him to compose himself, and once he does, he attempts a smile and nods his head. "Of course. You're my boy. My young, strapping boy. I have all the faith in the world."

"Then I'm coming home, alright pa? Nothing gets between Cayden and a good ol' fashioned District Ten breakfast. You make the best eggs."

"I'm pretty sure it's the chickens that make the eggs," he laughs, his old, withered frame shaking. There's something so inspiring, watching a man at his age still standing strong despite the years flying by. It's like he's a symbol for what can go right in this world. Through the shit thrown our way, there's a light amongst it all.

My father is that, and I'd like to think I am too. At all the right moments, people like myself will be there for you. I hope it translates into some kind of strength come the Games. I don't want to think too far ahead, all that strategy nonsense, it hurts the gears creaking inside my skull. All I know is allies equal security, someone to watch your back.

That's what matters, right? That's what people will want from me, the Cayden they know. I'll be that guy and a thousand times more whoop-ass thrown on top.

Forget the Careers. Cayden Armani is comin' through!

"Son, you're drifting again."

He attempts at placing another hand on my shoulder, but I'm up out the chair before that's possible. Quickly, I'm standing in front of him, staring down into his beady eyes poking through the brow that dangles down through old age.

Kind of gross, but it's my dad, gross aside he's one hell of a cool dude.

"I'm thinking booze when I get back, some Capitol scum serving us twenty-four hour meals whenever we want. Maybe a lovely looking lady. I'm sure they've got some old gals, with their bits still standing-"

"That's er, fine... Cayden. Just come home son. I have a wife."

"So do plenty of people, doesn't stop them from having a bit of fun on the side."

He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. That's all I want. His laughs, the smile that lights up a room, pushing away the darkness creeping along the walls and attempting to suffocate those within. Being reaped is daunting, it's terrifying, it's everything I've feared all wrapped up into one.

But that doesn't mean it can contain me and stop me acting the way I always do. No one tells me how I should be, because I won't tell them how I want them to act either.

People are themselves, and seeing my father respect all that despite where I am, it fills me with enough joy to last the whole trip there. And back. _I'm coming back. _

"You want me to cheat on your beautiful mother?"

"Course not. I was only joking."

He shakes his head and places another hand on my shoulder, quietening his broken laughter. "You're an Armani. We're tough folk, tougher than most out there, just look at your sister-"

"Just look at me," I say, sweeping some hair back. He laughs again and pats me once more.

"That's right. Look at you. You're a tough lad, you're likeable, you're everything the Capitol want from their Victor. You show that to them. Make them laugh. Make them fall in love with you because that's what will get you home!"

"I thought that's what the guns were for," I flex and again, the same laughter wracked with his age, continues to help me fight away the very same sadness eating away from inside my head. It's enough to hold it back, and it's enough to give me that drive.

"You're coming home Cayden, I know you are."

"I will dad, don't worry."

He takes another long look at me and nods his head, smiling broadly. "I never do."

That's right father, don't worry about me. Sometimes, it can be difficult to take things seriously because there's a lot that fights against you. I won't let it hold me back. I refuse to let the other tributes stop me from making it home to my father; or the city my mother warned me against pull me back from my one goal of surviving.

I can make friends along the way, find a group, be the right hand man of a guy or gal that knows how to lead. But that doesn't change a thing.

My goal is to survive, and survive is what I shall do.

* * *

**Thanks to Sunlight Comes Creeping In, Flintlightning, Axe Smelling God and jacob1106 for these four tributes. **

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

_**Chart of opinions? (Favourites, like, neutral etc).**_

* * *

**AND THE INTRODUCTIONS ARE DONE!**

**You've now seen every tribute once, meaning the Capitol will soon be arriving ;D I'm hella excited, usually I dislike the Capitol greatly, but the same goes for pre-Capitol POVs and I had a blast writing these, so I'm sure that'll all change!**

**Now that all the tributes have been seen for the first time, there is a poll asking for your favourite six tributes. Polls don't effect anything, but they're always a bit of fun so go ahead and vote on that! **

**Next update might be a bit of a longer wait, pretty much in just over 24 hours I get my exam results. Results that decide my future (university or a repeat of the last year of high school -.-), so... scared might be a bit of an understatement. As soon as the nerves and desire to throw up disappear, I'll start the next chapter. **

**Until then anyway, thanks for sticking with me through this beginning half! See y'all with the next chapter!**


	7. Doubt

**Chapter Seven.**

* * *

**Train Rides.**

* * *

**Leven Foxe, 17 years old;  
District Two Female.**

* * *

The train décor is extravagant; that's the first thought that creeps through my mind once we step through the doors. The next is Dario's intimidating presence, lingering behind my shoulder, silent and strong. I turn to him and try to smile, but I'm pretty sure the result is a nervous twitch that causes embarrassment to flush through my face, a red intensity burning my cheeks.

"Our mentors should be here soon," Dario states, waving a hand forwards. I look at him, then towards the booth waiting near a television set, a buffet laid splendidly on a table that goes from one end of the train cart to the other.

"Thank you," I nod and politely accept the kind gesture, moving forwards and taking a window seat. It's hard, hearing the flashing and snapping of cameras just a few feet behind a thin sheet of transparent glass. My family are staring somewhere out there, horrified, most likely. Marriott might be celebrating with her friends that her sister is finally doing something a girl like her, a perfect girl, can actually acknowledge, the only one to really see something special in my actions.

Being my sister can't be that easy. Her friends expect perfection, in Marriott's eyes and a thousand others I'm the antithesis of that very ideal. Except, now? Now I have my shot, and I'm not going to give it up until I've accomplished what it is we all set out to do. Even if my District partner is a tall, intimidating figure, he doesn't seem so bad.

Maybe he's... a future asset? _Asset, he's a human. _I feel my stomach immediately somersault at such a blatant inhumane act. I can't cast him as something to use yet, or ever. It's not fair on... on him, right? I stare at his unrelenting stare; there's kindness in the crinkles on his cheeks, the way his lips are ever so slightly curled up.

But his eyes are strong, so very strong. I must look like nothing next to him, a speck of dust waiting for the right wind to blow it away. And here I am trying to dehumanize a person who could stamp me out with a single click of his fingers.

"So..." his eyes seem to lighten as my voice breaks the icy, awkward silence. Immediately my throat starts to dry up like sandpaper. "Er... come here... often?"

He laughs. Dario's face brightens up as my own starts to darken with red. _Did I really just ask that? _A tiny voice at the back of my head starts arguing with another voice at the irrevocable stupidity. I'm not setting a good enough example. We're careers, and I've basically thrown any sense of self respect out the window.

"Can't say that I have."

I try to chuckle to ease the embarrassment twisting up my insides. All that comes out is a dry croak. "Are... are you excited now that you're here?"

"Excited might not be the right word. Ready, maybe. It's time."

_Time. _It's definitely his time, I can see the acceptance in the rigidity of his muscles, the expression on his face. This is his time, and he's not giving it up. But is it my time? Have I made the biggest mistake in the history of mistakes, should I have let some other, able-bodied girl take my place even when it was handed to me by the Academy?

_Can you ever stop doubting yourself?_

Probably not, not when it's life and death, not when I make a fool of myself with every action and word.

"I'd like to think it's my time. Makes it easier."

He nods," I guess we'll wait and see. Are you excited to meet our fellow allies?"

_No. _"Yes." I nod and smile when the train starts to fluidly move out from the station. District Two blurs into a mesh of grey cinder block, followed by the rural greens and yellows of nature. It's amazing how quickly we're thrown out from the mountainous regions of our District and into the forests that fill up the inhospitable environment between where everyone in Panem lives.

I'd do anything to leave this train, hide out in the woods. Not because it would be an easy life. But it would be a free life. No more expectations of what and who people from Districts like ours should be. We can be ourselves, no burdens, no weights pressing down on our shoulders.

Freedom is an impossible ideal, but it's a sweet one. One that drowns out the nerves, giving me time to listen to the gentle hum of the train as it hurtles through the wind.

Dario gets up from the booth and silently moves over to the buffet table. The automatic doors will soon open and in will walk our escort and the mentors. Three people that will bring about the reality of what I've done to a degree that's inescapable.

But right now, I lean my head against the window and close my eyes.

If only for minute, I'm not headed to the Capitol, I'm headed to a place where the harshness of life is nothing but sand through my fingers. It's a place where I can say goodbye to everything.

A place to be free.

* * *

**Etolie Laville, 17 years old;  
District Seven Female.**

* * *

_What a creep. _I stare at Alfie, locked in a repetitive loop of shuffling away from his mentor, only to be advanced upon again. Oren stares at him and laughs, Alfie awkwardly smiles and moves away, then Oren does the same.

Everytime Alfie nears the edge, he moves to another booth, and Oren follows him like a lapdog. It'd be amusing if Oren were a pushover, a follower, but he isn't. He's a Victor with maniacal tendencies locked away behind a smile. I sense it, everyone in Seven knows it.

Alfie on the other hand doesn't voice his concern or uncomfortable position. He takes it through his awkward, meek behavior. _Stand up for yourself, don't make me have to-_

"Oren, he's a little boy. Keep your hands to yourself."

Jina saunters on through the automatic door, her curvacious figure swaying left and right. I groan and sink deeper into the plush cushions of my own chair, tucked deep into the right hand side. Our escort has abandoned us for his sleeping cart, for whatever strange reason the Capitolite's do what they do.

I try not to think too much about why others think the way they think. Partly out of the inability to truly pin down anyone's frame of thought, partly because I honestly, couldn't care less.

Let them do what they want.

I'm only here to win, not make friends.

"I'm very much aware of his size and gender, Jina. I'm only trying to get to know the poor thing."

"Excuse me," Alfie says, voice betraying the false strength he tries to smother his fear with. "I'm not little."

"Ickle wickle Alfie," Oren goes to squeeze his cheek, but Alfie's fast, something I've pinpointed about him since the beginning. That's about the only thing he has going for him, that and his ability to appear so... sweet. _Allies, screw them! _Let him have them all. Allies get in the way, create dramas, emotions that will kill me sooner than any other tribute with their knives and arrows and spears and whatnot.

Still, something deep down squirms at the sight of Alfie's torn up, conflicted face. A part deep down, inside my chest, that won't disappear.

"Hey. Pedo!" I rise from my chair, and only when all faces turn to me, does the regret pierce through my resolve. "Or, er, carry on..."

Oren stands up, fuming. With his thick, muscular arms crossed tight up to his chest, my own mind starts to berate itself. _Idiot, idiot, idiot. Don't get involved, this is exactly what could get you killed. _"What did you say to me... dearie..."

"Oh please, the act is amusing, but you're not a bimbo from One. There's no blonde hair to hide behind. No pretty little butterfly eyelashes to flutter. You're massive." Jina places a hand on Alfie's shoulder. At first he looks just as tense as before, but slowly with Oren's attention focused clearly on me, he starts to relax.

Then his gaze finds me, and worry widens his eyes. "H-Hey. Er. Mr Cutler. She didn't mean anything by it I'm sure. Maybe where she's from it means something else?"

"She's from the same place you're from 'ittle Alfie. Spit it out sunshine, what did you mean by that?"

_Now or never Etolie, no point hiding anymore._

"Clearly, you have something inside your brain that manifests itself into these urges you cannot control. Now don't worry," I raise a hand, standing up to level myself to the highest height I can muster. _Fuck, he's tall. _"There are plenty of ways for you to combat these desires."

"I'm not a fucking freak, you piece of- no. Come on Etolie, let's not fight."

"Couldn't agree more!" Alfie chirps from his lower position.

"No let them, this is kind of fun." Jina pops a grape into her mouth and winks when I catch her eye. Despite the imaginary fist pushing my heart right up into my throat, and whisking my insides into a mess that makes my stomach hurt, I stand my ground. Better to nip this in the bud before it starts to grow, I guess.

A disturbed mentor will only do me more harm than good. _But so will confrontation. _

"I don't want to get involved, but Alfie's a little kid. Sweet, maybe." He lights up at this and once again, I feel tongue tied. Like I shouldn't have said anything. I'm building a bridge without meaning to. I should have sat down and let the poor kid suffer under Oren's huge thumb. _Fuck this._

"Look, just mentor him, do whatever it is you're _supposed _to do, and leave it there."

Oren shakes his head, pointing a thick finger in my direction. "I am not-"

"Look, Etolie was only kidding. She's a right laugh alright, they're all scared and she was just trying to defuse the tension with a bit of dark humor. Ease off big guy. Have a cupcake. Drink some wine. Stroke a kitten. I don't care, just lay off the poor girl, she's been through enough as it is." Jina removes herself from Alfie's position and walks over to Oren, leading him off, but not before smiling over her shoulder.

That's when I catch Alfie's eyes, stuck on mine, and everything goes off inside my head. The same warning alarm repeating itself.

What have I done? Don't get involved with anything and anyone, the simplest of all tasks, and I failed.

If I can't do something like that, how can I possibly win something so devious as the Hunger Games?

_With difficulty, Etolie. And maybe a friend._

We'll see, I guess. Friends have always been a weak point of mine. I'm not sure this is the right place to change that. Not a game with one survivor.

* * *

**Tamarin Bray, 17 years old;  
District Nine Female.**

* * *

"This is awkward."

Corliss looks down sheepishly into his lap, twiddling his thumbs. _It had to be him. I'd rather Raul was my mentor. _"It's only awkward if you make it that way."

"You believe that?"

No, I don't. It became awkward the moment my sister decided to move in with her childhood sweetheart. Who knew that the very same individual would turn out to be Nine's newest Victor?

"I do, Corliss." I smile, repressing all the feelings of hatred and bitterness my sister's abrupt abandonment filled me with. I was sixteen, older than some kids forced to live alone without a shoulder to cry on. But that never made it any easier.

"That's good then. I – we- never meant to hurt you." _Like the Capitol never meant to hurt the Districts when Panem was formed? Bullshit. _

"I know. Don't worry. The past is in the past. Now, I have a Games to win," I sweep my hair over my shoulder and laugh, moving out from the booth and sidling up next to Evander. Deep in conversation with Raul, the two barely even acknowledge my presence until Corliss sits right behind me, leaning on the back edge of the seat.

"Advising him on how to kill a twelve year old?" Corliss winks when Raul moves his eyes up to his younger partner's. Smiling, Corliss sinks down next to me and claps his hands together. He's immature. That much is obvious.

On some level it's hard to even see him as someone who can guide me through a game of life and death. Being two years my senior, he's nothing more than a teenager like the two of us. Me and Evander might be – or probably are – more intelligent than him. More capable. He only won because he found the right team, a group of meat shields.

He played it smart. He played it calm and casual. He played it how I want to play it.

_So, maybe shut up and listen to him._

"I was just talking to Evander about his genius plan of tearing apart the Career alliance from within."

Raul leans back smugly. Corliss' eyebrows almost comically shoot up and disappear into his hair. All I can manage is a simple look in the direction of Evander's solemn face. He looks up briefly, then straight back in the direction of Raul.

It's like he's devoted to the psycho. Twisted and arrogant, Raul's age has done nothing to sweeten him over the years. I stare at him with a sense of loathing. He may represent Nine for our chances as tributes, but he's nothing I ever hope to be. He's a living embodiment of what corrupts our country, what blinds my thoughts, what twists my gut and hurts my head when I try to remain the kind of girl I told myself I'll always be.

Nice. Kind. The very same shoulder to cry on, when I lost the person that meant the most to me. _To him. _

"Brave plan. Not sure it'll work."

"Because he's from Nine?" Raul smirks and leans forwards again, staring at Evander's composed face. "This lad right here, this future Victor, has trained Corliss. _Trained_." He enunciates the word with such love for what it means, that I find myself feeling sick.

It feels like an act of betrayal, on Evander's part. We sit in fear and loathing for what the Careers stand for, what they provide the Capitol with, and now there's someone here from an outlier District that has stuck to the same ideals such monsters follow.

It makes me angry at him. And myself. Because I'm judging him for the darkness that lies inside, before even understanding his motivations. Before giving him a chance, when that's all I try to give to other people.

"Does that mean you're going to be joining their alliance?" I ask, as sweet as I can. Not because I'm trying to be false – in fact, for pretty much the opposite reason. I want to be someone that Evander can respect as a District partner. _And so maybe, if he is in the Careers, the monsters might spare you from a lovely round of 'Torture Tamarin'. _I smile through the morbidity clouding my mind and move even closer to Evander.

He doesn't tense up, or move, or flinch, but I sense his line of sight moving to the corners of his eyes. Staring at me.

"It means I'm going to kill the people that killed my sister. Forced my mother to kill herself. I'll be doing us all a favour – they're sick creatures, twisted under the Capitol's oppression. Now's my one and only chance to make them pay."

He says it with such conviction, it's hard to doubt. But underneath it all, there's a hundred and one different ways of this failing. The Careers are trained for this sort of thing, trained to sniff out the mental states of other tributes, not just their physical capabilities.

We're nothing but victims in their eyes, even Evander, sitting here as one of the stronger competitors.

It's hard to be optimistic about my chances, when everything's set against me.

At least, Evander's plan has given me one light amongst all this darkness One chance for a bit of hope.

I need a team.

I need some friends.

* * *

**Clarence Higbee, 16 years old;  
District Eleven Male.**

* * *

I can't seem to shake Eaton off. Each time I look at my mentor's eyes, they shift, and then return back to my face. It's eating away at me, what he wants, why he's doing this. If it were possible I'd go away and lock myself in my room, but with the recaps still running on and on in an over-commentated, blur of misery, it's hard to find the right excuse.

I look over at Dilara, trying to occupy my train of thought, and that's when Eaton finally breaks the cold silence permeating through the air.

"So, what happened to your finger?"

"Eaton," Seeder warns, immediately bristling from her back seat. She's like an overseer of sorts, a young mother for the pair of us. It's nice having her here as an opposition to Eaton's more brash, immature approach to mentoring the pair of us.

Dilara shifts uncomfortably, moving her eyes ever so slightly down to my finger, then back up when I catch her looking. "It fell off." I reply coolly, smirking when his eyes widen.

"Seriously?"

I'd laugh, but it's impossible to really give off such a reaction when the desire to see Nettie is overriding every other waking thought. Between Eaton's desire to poke and prod random bits of information from me, and the situation, there's not really much else. "Yes. I was walking around one day, minding my own business, when my pinky fell down a drain."

Seeder finally starts giggling, Dilara smothering her mouth with her hand, and finally Eaton latches on. For someone who won the Games, you'd think he'd have a brain. Now I'm not one for trying to think why people act the way they do, it's their business, but it's worrying.

He is my mentor after all. If he's this air-headed, what hope is there of me returning to Nettie?

_Seeder. Dilara. Allies._

I look over at Dilara and immediately shake off that thought. She's kind, but there's a hostility around her as well. A barrier I'm all too familiar with. Words don't seem to get through to her, and rarely does anything seem to elicit any sort of reaction inside her. It's a miracle I even managed to make her laugh. It's rare for me to act like this, but with the nerves, the emotions, the everything else filling me up and attaching me to the nightmares of a gruesome death, distraction is welcome.

"I wanted to feed my family. Peacekeeper caught me, because I was poor and couldn't go down the legal route. Now here's my finger, half cut." I wag the stump and watch his face contort with disgust. Usual reaction. Might have fazed me once, but appearances are far too superficial for me to even waste any ounce of worrying.

It's about results. Feeding my family. Loving Nettie. Winning the Hunger Games. Maybe there might come a point where my lack of a little finger will stop me from accomplishing such a task, but that day I can work around when it comes. For now, it's the train rides and watching my opposition strategise, or fail to strategise, how they're going to appear strong for the cameras.

When it reaches Eleven, I'm surprised by the manner I hold myself. Shoulders straight, face briefly flashing with anger when I catch the sight of Nettie's eyes brimming with tears. Anyone else might have broken down like she did, my poor, loveable Nettie. But not me, I couldn't do that to her, or to my family, or to myself.

If I cry, it makes it all the more real. Like I'm accepting the hole in the ground waiting to be filled with a coffin and my rotting corpse. I just have to make sure that the hole is never filled.

"Dilara, dear. Why don't you tell us about your family?" Seeder moves closer when the little boy from Twelve makes it to the stage and the commentator drifts off to chances and all that crap. I'd be bothered if any of that really mattered.

Sponsors are important, but they're not the be all and end all of the Games. The right mindset is what will get me through this, a detachment from others without being brutally cold. If I can adopt that, it shouldn't be as hard as it might be for those willingly throwing themselves into friendships.

It was easy for me in Eleven to remain distant, so it shouldn't be hard to transfer that into a place designed to break apart relationships.

"Nothing to tell. Now if you'll excuse me." Dilara peels herself off from the couch and moves through the sliding doors, away from sight. _Now's your chance._

"I'm exhausted. Goodnight Eaton, goodnight Seeder."

The two of them nod their heads, Eaton still staring at my finger. Curiosity does that to a person. It dulls all other senses, the object of our fascination corrupting any sense of logic.

But that won't be me. Not in the Capitol. Not in the Games. For Nettie and for everyone else I love, for my sense of self, I'm making it through this.

It's not like there's no hope. Eaton and Seeder are testament to Eleven's ability to bring back some tributes alive.

I'll be the third. I have to be.

The alternative is too painful.

* * *

**New poll every chapter! Results will now be posted in every A/N, so here we have it, results for favourite tribute:**

**1****st****: Lysander Davenport – 10 votes  
2****nd****: Charles Craft – 9 votes  
3****rd****: Leven Foxe – 8 votes  
4****th****: Tallis Altier + Meva Ralline + Gemini Leole – 6 votes  
5****th****: Sheen Howell + Alfie Caulfield – 5 votes  
6****th****: Raegan Kalis + Dilara Donovan – 4 votes  
7****th****: Septimius Cort + Sayla Reinhardt + Clarence Higbee – 3 votes  
8****th****: Dario Marston + Soren Ansel + Etolie Laville + Evander Eldegwy + Tamarin Bray + Cayden Armani – 2 votes  
9****th****: Riva Buchanan – 1 vote  
10****th****: Assisi Umbria + Celeste Damount + Chiffon Vander + Ash Rowe – 0 votes**

**Congrats to Lysander for winning the first poll! XD New poll: Early bet for Victor? Go ahead and vote! This poll does mean who you !****think!**** however, try not to factor in bias for your favourites XD I'll leave you the choice of four tributes to choose from, so go over to my profile and vote!**

* * *

_**Favourite POV?**_

_**Potential alliances you see coming together?**_

* * *

**Yay for the first Capitol chapter! **

**Do train rides count as a Capitol chapter? Eh, well I'll count it I guess, not sure what else you'd call it. Anyway! For those interested in how the format will be, each tribute will have a POV from this point up until training day three, so that's four povs per chapter and six chapters! Then we'll see some non-tribute POVs for sessions and interviews, and then each tribute will get their own miniature section during the launch chapter. Maybe around 100-200 words each. Then the bloodbath! XD**

**It's not ideal to get to know each tribute, but with their own POV, appearing in other POVs, seeing them from some outside perspectives that aren't tribute related, and a final launch POV, hopefully you'll have some connections before these guys starting dropping dead! ;D **

**Aye, so thanks everyone for reading, drop a review if you can, still a lot of submitters I haven't heard from. If you're alive, lemme know :P **


	8. Me, Myself and I

**Chapter Eight.**

* * *

**Chariot Preparation.**

* * *

**Dario Marston, 18 years old;  
District Two Male.**

* * *

The train ride ends in a barrage of cameras and reporters. Each crowd that's broken by Peacekeepers only seems to multiply like there's a never-ending supply of weirdly tattooed and colored folk, pressing their noses up and close, no understanding of the idea behind personal space.

Leven's hand finds mine between the jostling of the journey towards the Remake Centre. We're ushered together quickly and rather forcefully, but Leven's support anchors me to the ground and keeps me from feeling as light-headed as I could easily become.

I don't like this. The attention. The flashing of the cameras. The constant questions thrown through the air about our favorite color and what we ate on the train. It's pointless. It's stupid.

"I've never wanted to get to the Games faster."

Leven flashes an unsure smile over her shoulder. "This compared to the Games, even I'd have to go for the Games."

"Great minds think alike," I smirk and watch her face brighten up more.

It's nice being with Leven. Somehow on that simple train ride a sense of understanding has blossomed between us both. Neither of us feel like the right sort of people made for the Games, but the determination and reasoning is there – it helps us wipe away that hesitation and feel like we have just as much of an equal shot as anyone else.

It doesn't make it any easier having to accept what I'll become once I make that first kill. Take that first life. It's never been about the actions inside the Arena for either of us, it's been about what surviving will do for us; what's waiting for us in the District... what pushed us to volunteer.

Her family.

My Juno.

We all have our reasons.

"Ah there we are, the other tributes seem to be arriving on time." Our escort pushes us up the final steps, and there before us, looming over our heads in the shape of a colossal glass skyscraper is the Remake Centre. From down here the pizazz we thought to expect of Capitol buildings isn't quite as amazing, but the size... the enormity.

I gulp and feel sweat budding on my palms, trickling down my brow. "Don't let go," Leven whispers without having to turn and face me.

I squeeze her hand in response. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Up front on an elevated block of concrete, a woman wearing a simple, plaid uniform with frizzy ginger hair smiles down at us with a clipboard clutched to her chest.

"Welcome tributes. Behind these doors you will be one step closer towards what you're all here for. It's very important none of you break any rules. No arguing with your prep team or stylist. No leaving your room. No physical violence. In someways, no talking would help. Speak when spoken to. Move when asked to move." She smiles a sweet smile, but underneath that very grin is the dark undertones I've come to expect from this city. "You are tributes. Do as you are told and things will go off without a hitch. Fight back... the other twenty-three around you will be the least of your worries."

She leads the entourage through the doors. Some of the tributes hurry up faster in their little District groups, mentors and escort hurrying them along. We stay back much to the chagrin of our own escort who moans about inefficiency.

Whatever she has to say is no concern of mine. What anyone but myself and now Leven has to think or do is not a priority, it's nothing to me. In the grand scheme of things, every step I take has to be properly thought through, has to be based around the fact that I can win.

Leven can't win for me to win, but that's something to be dealt with in the future.

For now, I pull on her hand and we walk in together.

"What kind of image are we trying to give off?"

Leven looks at me, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Do we want to appear like a team, united together? Or distant, as allies, nothing more."

She jumps to the answer before we're even through the glass doors. "We're friends now Dario. Friends stick together. I don't care what they think..." she frowns and looks away, shaking her head. "Well, I'll try not to let what they think change how I feel. Sometimes it can be hard."

"I understand."

Eventually, once the tributes start dispersing up flights of stairs and into elevators depending on the prep team that comes to get them, Leven is pulled from me and I'm left standing in the company of just myself. Everything's moving so fast, it's hard to keep my head wrapped round everything

All I know right now is that Leven called me her friend. Friends stick together. Friends support one another. We both want the same thing, the same thing that means we both can't achieve it, but that's an ending for another day.

Today is about looking good. Standing out. Being in the spotlight. Three things neither of us like but three things we'll get through together.

It's not the best of circumstances, having an attachment already, but it's who I am. Who Leven is.

We're Careers, but we're not monsters.

We're not bad people.

* * *

**Gemini Leole, 18 years old;  
District Four Female.**

* * *

The electrically automated door slides open, leaving enough room for a mousy haired, blue eyed lady to jump in and walk over towards me. I lean up on my elbows and smile in her direction, ignoring the limited cover stopping me from exposing every inch of my body to a complete and total stranger.

It wouldn't be the first time, but it's different in her case. Being a woman, from the Capitol, and a lady who's job it is to try and make me look good when I know how to do it better than her, it's not the most inviting way of getting me to shed this sheet and show off what I possess.

She must sense my hesitance, because with a gentle hand on my shoulder, she bends down to meet my eyes and smiles. "Darling. I'm Martina. You will shine tonight, I can assure you of that. I've worked with many. Some atrociously ugly, some the living embodiment of... sex," she veers off for a quick, immature giggle and begins rambling on again, "we won't need to do too much with you. Your hair is like fire. Your eyes like the sea. But there's something you're holding back." She slaps me on the shoulder and shakes her head.

A part of me, the stronger part, the part that's meant to be all Career Monday to Sunday entices me to slap her back. The cheek of the woman. The other part is silently enraptured by each silky smooth word her voice makes. The way her eyes are like liquid pools of sapphire, with actual jewels encrusted under her eyelids.

I've always wanted to be the prettiest of the pretty. The envy of all the nation. The epitome of perfection. If Martina is the one person who can help me achieve such desires, then who am I to stop her? We're all here for different reasons. The thrill, the fame, the glory, the violence. Martina's but an asset on this long journey – a journey I shall return from, whole and together.

"I'm a little... nervous." I giggle like she did, sitting up even further. Almost nose to nose, Martina's eyes flash and she grips onto the plastic sheet covering me up. Such a thin veil between decency and exposure. I've never been this modest, this innocent on the inside. It's like my skin's erupting with embarrassment at being seen by someone so used to crafting with the best of the best.

I am that, right? I've always been that.

So why should I be nervous?

"The easiest way to conquer your nerves is to face them my dear Gemini. You are stunning but there are flaws I need to work with. Embrace this moment, embrace where you are, embrace who you are. And most of all: Don't. Be." she whips the sheet off, cold air rushing up my legs and stomach, working its way through every nook and cranny of my body. "Scared." She finishes with a clap of her hands and turns towards her workspace, vials of scents and perfumes, dyes and colors I've never even seen before. Materials of different sizes and shapes hang from little pegs, clippings from larger works.

I knew that the Capitol possessed something District Four could never hope to achieve, but this is putting me right in the centre of where I actually... belong.

I belong here. The richness of everything, the future laid out for me. I don't feel so frightened anymore about showing myself to a total stranger because I feel like Martina, in such a short time, has managed to connect with who I am and how I feel before anyone else has.

Except for my sister, but she's supportive of me, she knows why I'm doing this and how I'm going to be coming home shortly. It's one big show, after all.

The Hunger Games. A game. It may be a grisly game of kill or be killed but what makes it that much harder than any other game? Especially when you have what I have. Martina's expressed the beauty I have inside and out, I have training – small as it may be, it's still existent – and I have the right attitude.

The right drive.

It's all there within me to win, so it can't be that difficult to actually accomplish it.

"What's the plan for tonight?"

Martina turns and shakes her head, putting a finger to her puffy, red lips. "That my dear is a secret. First we must polish the canvas – your body. Make it shine. Make it perfect."

Canvas?

I'm imperfect as of now, something to be worked on. But give it a few hours and tonight I'll be shining. I'll be the star.

I'll be Martina's piece of art; the representation of a true Victor, waiting for her crown.

* * *

**Alfie Caulfield, 15 years old;  
District Seven Male.**

* * *

"We ran a little shop in Seven. Well, I mean it's still running. Just without me, you know, there to help."

"At least your brothers can support your parents," Sayla, the girl from Ten smiles. The remake centre leaves little to the imagination. Glass, metal and a little on the drab side, the Capitol has failed to leave that much of a mark... yet. The outside I'm sure is as spectacular as the rumors.

But being boxed up in a glass cube made me feel claustrophobic, like everything is as real as it's ever been, like the walls are slowly crumbling inwards and suffocating me. Exploring seemed the right option, something Sayla seemed to agree with when I found her wandering around one of the top floors.

"My mum will carry on... if she can pull herself together." I smile sadly, looking down at the ground. "She was pretty shook up when she came to say goodbye."

"Family is still family. They have each other to support through their grief."

I stare up at her, my eyes widening. Not that I expect much hope. And I'm not exactly sure Sayla realizes the gravity of what the word grief really means. What my parents will have to experience – what I'll have to go through – for the grieving process to fully begin.

"I didn't mean-" she starts mumbling her apologies but I brush them off, shaking my head. Sayla's right. My family will have one another. Even if my brothers are the biggest morons the world has to offer, they're still my brothers. Family is still family no matter what.

"I'm happy they'll be together. I won't be there but that's alright, you know."

Sayla takes my hand and nods. "You still have a chance to get back to them. We all do."

"People expect things from the District that cuts down trees. Lifting axes isn't an easy job, all that wood, you're supposed to be... well, you're _not _supposed to look like me."

"There's nothing wrong with you Alfie," Sayla smiles reassuringly, squeezing my hand. "As far as I can tell, you're a good guy."

"So are you."

Sayla giggles at me. W-What did I?... I blush and start to laugh as well. "Not that you're, you know, a guy. You're a good girl... a good... person..." I shake my head and the two of us sit together, enjoying each others company, our laughs echoing down and round the glass corridors.

The Capitol can make us feel like sacrifices for a fight we had no part in – part of the greater good. Something to feel honor in. But when all that is stripped back and the horror is unveiled, we still have these moments, pieces of normalcy and friendship that they cannot ever take away because it's what makes us human.

We may be animals in their eyes. Pawns. Pieces of a game. But we're always human. Nothing can stop me from being who I am.

"Mr Caulfield. Of all the tributes you were not someone I expected to disobey-" I look up and gulp, my entire throat constricting at the sight of a red-nosed, pink-skinned lady with her hands on her hips, glaring down at the two of us. "How very dare you leave your room. Just as I was about to bring out the fake leaves. And you young lady, you're a bad influence on my tribute. Go, shoo," she waves her hand like Sayla is a mere pest that she can swat away.

Sending me a smile over her shoulder and rolling her eyes, Sayla whisks away and round the corner, her voice carrying back to me in a distant echo. "See you around Alfie, have fun!" Then she laughs and as it gradually fades, I start to chuckle brightly, ignoring the anger radiating off the pink disaster that this stylist claims is the latest fad.

I may not know a lot about what looks good on a person. But looking like something a rainbow would vomit cannot be attractive.

But what does that matter? In the end, looks aren't the be all and end all of everything. It's about character and heart. I think about Sayla as she shoves me into the room and begins dabbing wads of cotton in brown and green dye before patting them over my skin.

Dressing me up like a damn tree.

I shouldn't care, because I've actually found someone like me here. Someone who isn't the monster I always thought the tributes to be. It was easier to watch the Games when I pretended that they were just characters on a show, characters that internally were as bad as what it is they were doing on the outside.

I know they never were, and now I'm more than certain that we're just good people forced to do bad things.

"I like that Sayla girl. Who cares what you think," I mumble, leaning back, ignoring the sensation of her fingers swirling patterns on my bare skin. It's wrong. It's disgusting. But it's life. It's the Hunger Games.

We're forced to do things we don't want to do.

Meeting Sayla though, that's a good thing. Something to enjoy.

I've actually found a friend, in the one place that the very idea of friendship is wrong. But who cares about wrong, right now? Sayla's someone I need. My only link to being who I am.

I'm not going to give that up. Not for the Capitol, not for anyone.

* * *

**Cayden Armani, 18 years old;  
District Ten Male.**

* * *

"Do you bathe in mud?"

"Yup! Us folk in Ten also eat rats, have lice, live in huts. My best friend is a flea. Hey, buddy, what are you doing on my stylist's arm?"

The man throws his hands up and screams, falling backwards. "I have fleas! I HAVE FLEAS!"

When the doors slide open and he rushes out, flailing and slipping around, his screams rattling the walls even when he's gone, I fall from the slab of metal and laugh. After a good old chuckle with my sides aching, my lungs burning and tears in my eyes, I pull myself up and mess around with the bit of wool on my shoulder.

Originality is definitely not one of my stylist's talents. With bits of white fluff sticking out everywhere, my skin painted a dark shade somewhere between black and brown, I'm meant to be a sheep. I fiddle with the electronic box fitted somewhere near my throat, hidden behind the woolen collar.

"For the love of..." I frown when I press the button and a very unconvincing sheep noise comes out the speaker. "I really wish I had given him fleas. The bastard deserves it."

I look around at the bare walls, the glass door wide open, the lack of company around me and sigh. "Guess I'm already going loony. Talking to yourself Cayden, way to start off this trip." It's so quiet my senses start picking up on everything. Something slowly starts to break the unnerving quiet, a gentle tapping, followed by the sounds of my stylist and someone else returning.

When they're close enough they fly back in, rounding on me with dark red faces, my stylist sobbing into his hands.

"Why would you do such a thing?" The lady standing before me is the very same one from earlier, outside the centre. Her friendly tone has been fully taken over by the malice for us non-Capitol citizens I sensed under that sweetness.

"Glad to finally meet you miss," I bow and reach out for her hand. When she notices the movement she bats me away, wrinkling her nose with disgust.

"What do you mean, you met me earlier."

"The real you," I wink when her mouth opens, then closes like a stupid fish. "Good show though, I would know. I put on some myself."

"I have no idea what you are talking about-"

"Alright," I sigh, shaking my head. "Play the oblivious woman. Good role. Not very convincing."

Before she can get another word in, my stylist throws his chubby frame between the two of us, his lips puffed out in a stupid pout. With his hands on his hips he stares at me, then back over at the lady. A shiver runs down his spine, the same shiver I experienced back in Ten when my name was called.

It only happened yesterday. Time really dies fly when you're having fun. Not that any of this has been the definition of fun.

Quite the opposite really.

"I'll have this boy punished. Whipped. Executed. I don't care! This dirty lowlife made a joke of me. I've never felt so embarrassed."

His empty demands fall on deaf ears. I know it. She knows it. I don't think he knows it. His face blossoms an even angrier shade than the stern, pursed lipped lady before me. When neither of us say anything and he realizes he won't get the reaction he requires, he rounds on me and shoots daggers in my direction.

"You're going to look like a fool out there. Everyone knows sheep were so last year. I wanted you to fail. And now I'm going to watch you become the laughing stock of Panem. No one damages my pride and gets away with it."

I start laughing. There's something so absurd about these caricatures of humanity. Something so stupid, I can't take it seriously. Even the threat of death looming in the near future isn't enough to deter me here and now. The situation is just so bizarre.

"I can't damage something that never existed. It'd be like damaging this chick's beauty."

She stares at me, narrowing her eyes. Unlike my stylist, she doesn't blow up into some kind of stupid drama, thankfully. At least she seems to have a brain cell. I don't need or want their presence. Ever since I've been bombarded with Capitolite after Capitolite, air head after air head, I've wanted – needed – a bit of peace.

The quiet's never been for me, but in this city, it'd be the best thing since working on the farm with my friends. To actually hear myself think properly without running the risk of a guy moaning about a strand of hair out of place, or a woman with a chipped nail.

It's too much. Too much to take in. Too much to handle.

"I'm going to baa myself out of this room and find Sayla. I quite like her company. I really don't like either of yours."

Before they can make anymore demands of me, I run out the room, ignoring the fact I must look stupid. I've never tried to care too much about outward appearance. Not in that sense anyway. But a part of me knows that I'm at a severe disadvantage because of this lousy sheep costume I'll be paraded around in.

If I'm going to survive in the future, it won't be based on sponsors. Maybe Sayla is the right person to ally with. Or maybe someone a bit stronger.

I need someone, that's for sure.

Someone to joke around with. Someone to protect in exchange for protection. Someone to make me feel valued.

Until the day I die, I need to be the person I am.

The person I intend on dying as, or surviving as. Myself.

* * *

**Congratulations to Lysander again. Two polls in a row ;D You're the favorite and people's bet for Victor!**

**1st: Lysander Davenport – 11 votes  
2nd: ****Sheen Howell + Charles Craft – 10 votes  
3rd: ****Dario Marston + Leven Foxe – 9 votes  
4th:**** Raegan Kalis – 7 votes  
5th:**** Gemini Leole – 6 votes  
6th:**** Tallis Altier – 4 votes  
7th:**** Etolie Laville – 3 votes  
8th: ****Meva Ralline + Cayden Armani + Dilara Donovan – 2 votes  
9th:**** Celeste Damount + Evander Eldegwy – 1 vote  
10th: ****Everyone else – 0 votes**

**New poll, this time asking you to vote for who you think will be a bloodbath. This is think, please don't vote based on who you'd like to see die. I'll leave it open to ten options, you don't have to vote for ten, but you can if you want to. **

* * *

_**Favorite POV?**_

* * *

**Chariot prep is always so dull, but I did my best with it so here's the result. A bit of a wait on this. I wanted to get my other story to the Games which I managed to do and then I was out for around four days at a friend's. **

**I would like to get this story to the Games as well before I go off to uni in just under three weeks, so either expect speedy updates, or expect the normal and I won't achieve that. We'll see!**

**Anyway thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and leave a review!**


	9. Come Hell or High Water

**Chapter Nine.**

* * *

**Chariot Rides.**

* * *

**Soren Ansel, 15 years old;  
District Three Male.**

* * *

The two chestnut colored horses whinny as I board the chariot. I lean forwards and ruffle their brushed hair, smiling. _This is nice, focus on this, not what's beyond the doors. _Whenever I strain my ears, the tumultuous roaring of a thousand, or two, or ten thousand Capitolites swarm through and causes my blood to run cold.

I don't do crowds. The whole idea of being the centre of attention. Call it stage-fright, call it nerves, call it whatever, this situation is not for me. But I suppose it's better than what's coming in a few days – anything is better than that.

A fight to the death. Me, Soren, fighting other stronger, braver, more able-bodied people to the cold, bitter end. I'd laugh at the mere notion but that side seems to be dulled down by the events. It's too real for me to be cynical about it. It's just the way it's panned out.

What can I do to stop it?

"Scoot up," Meva reaches a hand to grip onto the metal bars. Hoisting herself up and dismissing my offer of help, she plants her two feet firmly on the chariot and beams at me. "Nice outfit."

I'm about to offer my thanks when my eyes hone in on what she's got on. "I think your stylist missed the point." I bite my tongue hard to hold back the laughter in case Meva's the sensitive sort. She glances over my multicolored wired costume and bursts out in a fit of high-pitched giggles.

"Clearly." She pulls on a rose petal and plucks it off, throwing it over her shoulder. "Apparently she drank too much last night and thought I was the District Eleven girl. First," she raises a finger and smirks, "I'm not blonde." Another finger and she pulls a red petal off. "Second, my face doesn't give off the impression that I'm about to rip your throat out. Seriously, have you seen her?"

We both glance over the chariots. The long line is already beginning to fill up. I try not to focus too much on the chariot behind us, the two District Four tributes dressed minimally; muscles, beauty, whatever it is that we clearly don't have coming from Three.

There are a few other tougher looking competitors on the way, but at the very end, or near the end, I see the girl walking towards her own chariot. From here it's hard to tell, but it's obvious just by the way she walks. The girl clearly doesn't like other people. Or if she does, her face doesn't agree with her heart.

"See." Meva crosses her arms and moves closer to the front. "Now I'm covered in flowers and whatever this piece of fruit is taped to my head. Three is either going to hate me or laugh at me." I start to work out a way of encouraging her to hold her head high, or do whatever it is confident people should do to fight off their insecurities. But Meva seems tuned into that, as if she doesn't actually care about the repercussions of an intoxicated stylist getting the District wrong.

"Oh well. I'll stand out, won't I? Maybe the sponsors will love how out of the box my look is."

I nod and start to say something, but Meva turns around and I immediately close my mouth. There's something so endearing about her, something I'm close to, but something about her that makes me feel inferior. I doubt that's her game here, to make me out to be a simple shred of absolute nothing, but I can barely get a word in anywhere.

When will people stop walking over me and let me be something? An actual someone. Or is it my fault?

_It is, look at Meva, look at everyone. Then look at yourself._

I shake my head and watch Beetee walk over to the pair of us. Meva's own mentor doesn't seem to be anywhere in sight, something Meva must notice. Unlike the more dramatic kind, she keeps her mouth closed and smiles at Beetee.

"Before you say anything, yes I'm dressed as a flower, and yes District Three is meant to be more like Soren here. But honestly, I'm fine."

Beetee grips onto the chariot and offers me a small grin over Meva's shoulder before turning to her. "I've actually already heard about this little debacle. Instead I was coming over to wish you two the best of luck. I know what's is like being on this particular chariot. Sandwiched between Two and Four is never the easiest or most reassuring position."

The pair from Two are chatting together quietly from in front, and the two from Four are doing the same, only much louder like they don't care who could be snooping in. It does make me feel irrelevant, small, miniscule. Insignificant.

"I won't let it bother me. We only get this chance once to be standing here, I won't waste it fretting over the likes of them."

Beetee nods his head and then faces me. I try to mimic Meva, I really do. When nothing happens, Beetee seems to accept that and walks away, back to wherever it is the mentors gather for this affair.

"Guess it's showtime soon Soren. Don't forget to smile!"

_I'll try, Meva._ I'll do my absolutely best.

But for a long time now, I've known that my best has never been enough. I doubt that's about to change tonight.

* * *

**Chiffon Vander, 15 years old;  
District Eight Female.**

* * *

"I look like an overgrown pillowcase."

Pulling at the frill on my own costume, I laugh and pat a crease out on my District partner's shoulder. "You are an overgrown pillowcase. Quit complaining and work with it Septimius."

The shorter boy grunts and crosses his arms round his chest, turning away. "Cort. Call me Cort."

"Why?" I raise an eyebrow, smiling. "Your parents named you Septimius, I think it's only fair you stick with that."

His eyes flash in my direction and instantly he looks away when we make eye contact. "At least I'm not named after a fabric. District Eight? How stereotypical is that."

If he's looking for a rise from me, he can bloody well try harder. I'm not providing him with some sense of satisfaction at making the girl who wrecked a justice building room grow even angrier. Besides, it was a heat of the moment kind of situation, I was angry, pissed, what else could I do but vent? Septimius here releases his pent up emotions through the power of his grunts, I release it through my fists.

Which way stands a better shot at helping you win? I don't think you can grunt someone to death.

"I'm proud of my name. Vander sounds stupid as a first name, why would I insist someone calls me by something that's meant to be a last name?"

Through the growing roar of the Capitol behind the two metal doors out front, Septimius' voice barely carries over the general buzz spreading through the air. "If you have a name like Septimius, maybe you'd appreciate the name Cort."

Before he can get another word in, the pair from Seven enter their own chariot. Big ears looks down at the ground, scraping his foot awkwardly along the gravel before the girl helps him up. I wonder what's got him down in the dumps. I look over at Septimius and watch him focus on the girl, the one with the stick up her own-

"What are you staring at?"

Septimius goes a dark shade of red when she snaps in his direction. The boy looks upwards and tugs on her sleeve, directing her attention to the front. "Leave it Etolie."

The way Septimius has all of a sudden lost that angry front he seems adamant to keep hiding behind starts to make me laugh. He doesn't even latch onto the way I'm acting. Usually he would snap at me about being an idiot or acting like we weren't headed to an Arena designed to take our lives. Unlike him, I'm not about to lament over something I can't stop. Sure, the food I threw around the train could have been interpreted as a little immature when the escort demanded me to pay attention to the recaps, but whatever.

Honestly, I'm about to see them all here in the flesh, why bother studying their reaction when most will have fashioned their own strategy to not appear weak. I didn't hold back. Septimius took a while to get up there but once he did, I admit even he looked impressive enough.

I wonder if people think Eight actually has a shot this year. It'd be good if they thought that. I've always done best when people stayed away from me.

"Listen up Chiff' and Cort."

Before Septimius' face clears up of that unattractive red blush, Kennedy struts over to us. She's as short as she's ever been, pretty much barely tall enough to even lean over the side of the chariot. However, unlike some of the other mentors dragging their legs and wasted bodies around with their dysfunctional minds, she gives off a sense of power. The girl's tough, something even I can respect.

"See, she calls me Cort."

I glare at him over my shoulder, smiling. "Glad to see lover boy's back to normal."

"Lover boy?" He growls and attempts to hide the fact his eyes ever so slightly glance over Etolie again. What is it with boys? The girl's got leaves spread out all over her body, skin showing between the branches. It's funny how someone so uptight becomes so awkward. Maybe it's the very thing that will get him killed – this weakness.

"You two, I'm talking." Kennedy nods when she's got our fullest attention and begins going on and on about how we should act. I listen in and try to take in the advice, but honestly, the best we can do is stand here and wave, soak in the applause that's really only meant for the Careers and pretend that they're loving us.

Still, if it makes her happy and keeps another person off my back, I'll play the pretty little puppet.

"Thanks for the help Ken'"

"It's Kennedy." She starts walking off, back in the direction of Lawson.

"You call me Chiff', I'll call you Ken'"

I hear her laughter from here. Laughter that encourages me rather than annoys me. Septimius won't achieve any such reaction, he's cold, too cold. Like this is the right act for him to play – the role of the detached tribute, when seriously, he doesn't even come across as intimidating.

I'll play however I'm feeling in the moment. Why hide who I am for a country that's about to see me dead anyway?

Septimius has his grunts.

I have my fists.

Let's see who makes it the furthest.

* * *

**Dilara Donovan, 15 years old;  
District Eleven Female.**

* * *

The first chariot rolls through the doors, followed by a burst of fireworks that illuminate the stretch of marbled path. Even from all the way at the back the noise is deafening.

Clarence mutters something to me but underneath the noise I can barely hear a thing.

"Speak louder!" I shout over the cheering. Wave after wave of different types of noises, between each explosion of multicolored sparks, comes the never-ending beating of hands in a constant round of applause, the sound of tribute names rising above the stands either side.

With each jerk of our chariot we're nearing our own entry to the spotlight. I'm not the best at really smiling when someone forces me to, but for my chances at making it home, I plaster what I can and beam out to the side for a bit of practice.

My lip twitches but for the most part, it feels convincing enough. Clarence himself looks as disgusted as someone in his position should rightfully feel, and as much as I'm trying not to experience any ounce of connection to the sullen boy, he's as much as a key player in this part of the Game as I am.

"Please, just this once actually try to look happy." It comes out nastier than I'd hoped. Clarence stares at me with a mixture of hurt and anger, stirring some sense of guilt in my stomach that's smothered under every other emotion a human could probably ever feel in their lifetime.

This entire situation has brought out different sides to me. The side I try to be – the girl I promised to become after everything fell apart. The caring person, the person that meant a lot to me. But then there are people like Clarence, people who try so hard to push me away without having to actually say anything that brings about that continuous pain I felt those short few years ago.

It makes me mad. It makes me feel useless. Maybe that's why I'm trying to appear as distant as possible, in case something snaps and I become the very person I promised I'd never succumb to.

My brother.

"This okay?" He jabs a finger at his face, smiling a goofy, over the top grin that makes me laugh before I can hold such a noise back. He doesn't seem to really react too much to that, but taking it as some kind of acceptance, he keeps it plastered over the scowl I'm sure he's fighting to repress and forwards we go.

District Ten crosses the line between the darkened stables and the beautifully lit stadium. As much as it pains me to find anything remotely positive about this city that's forced me here, the way everything's structured, the finesse, the sheer size of it all... I keep my lips peeled into a smile, but for the first time tonight, I don't think it's as forced as it has been.

I'm not accepting what these people do. I'll never condone such brutality against innocents. But living in Eleven, the dull, oppressive life we lead compared to what this city has to offer. Anyone would find beauty in it.

I catch a quick glimpse out the corner of my eye, trying to gauge Clarence's own reaction to everything. Our turn in the spotlight before Twelve rolls out and some attention is diverted to them. It seems to be going as good as one can expect from where we're from. Roses to match those attached to my dress are thrown through the air and land to my feet, petals askew.

"Thank you!" I cry out through fake gratitude. A flower can't make up for what they're doing. Nothing will, but perhaps it's a symbol of their acceptance. Maybe I have someone's affection out there. Sponsors to help me survive.

"We're doing it!" I squeal. Clarence for a split second looks at me and nods again, before he switches back into the Clarence that adapts for the situation. That's what this really is. A show. Inside the Arena even when we're fighting to survive, we act in ways that don't come close to our true selves.

I'm not a bad person. A killer. A monster. That's not me despite the circumstances of what I've had to grow up with.

Clarence isn't a bad person either, just a boy who doesn't seem able to express much except for when it's required of him.

We adapt. We fit the role of tribute. We play the part. And now, seeing myself in a screen held above the crowds' heads, and Clarence standing next to me, I sense Eleven's glimmer of a chance expanding around us.

We have hope, actual, proper, existing hope.

"Eleven can do this," I mutter, waving out at the crowd. I've been through hell, about to go through more, but at the end of this all I'll finally have a life.

I'll fight with all I have to reach such a goal. I'll be the bad person the Capitol wants me to be. Maybe becoming my brother isn't such a bad thing, if it'll get me out alive, then I'll do anything. No matter what that means for those who get in the way.

* * *

**Riva Buchanan, 18 years old;  
District Twelve Female.**

* * *

If I could pick and choose who'd accompany me through this journey, Ash is the one person I'd have gone for. The fact I'm lucky enough to have such a District partner is what helps me get through this. The thoughts that hook their way inside of me and try to grow root, well, they're not as strong with him by my side.

If someone younger than me and half my size can act like this is all for the greater good: our survival, then I can too. It's about playing up to their fantasies of who we are and what we represent. This is the one part I truly felt the most fear for, having to act for the kinds of people I hate, but it's working.

It's not falling apart like I thought it would.

"Keep up the good work!" I yell over the thundering applause. Ash turns to me, offers a goofy looking grin and goes back to fist pumping the air. Thousands upon thousands of adoring Capitolites cheer our names, hoot their thrill in a hundred different noises at the fact we're rolling past them. Most will only get a glimpse but it seems that's enough.

I've never felt such grand love on such a scale, but a part of me keeps reminding myself what it really is. How fake it is. What they're actually cheering me on for. I'm glad for that side because it's what pulls me out from truly getting into the situation and actually believing that the cheering has a softer side.

I smile and wave, I play the person I feel happy being around those I care for, but it doesn't make me feel right. Not like it did back in Twelve with my family and friends. Being around them I could actually open up and show them the side to life that not many choose to accept.

It's funny how that works. A District rotting in poverty and filth turns out to be the place I can truly be happy in, compared to this beauty of a city, structurally and aesthetically impeccable, and all I feel is misery.

The determination is true though, that much hasn't changed. All it takes is for me to picture my family waiting for me, cheering me on back at home, and it drives me to do what has to be done. Ash is an obstacle, he always will be.

But he's a good kid. A clever, smart, perceptive kid. He knows what to do and he's willing to do it.

"Can you believe this?" His mouth breaks out in a perfect circle shape, jaw hanging open. "They actually love us. I thought Twelve meant nothing to them."

From an outside eye I have to agree with Ash, I thought miner's costumes were the dullest of the dull. Why cheer and clap for dusty old coal outfits when you can focus on the glistening jewels, the stone encrusted dresses, the muscles rippling through revealing clothes? I know who I'd pick.

But the fact they're focusing on us should be enough to quell the what ifs. If I have their attention, I need to soak it in and throw it back out there.

"I hope we've done enough. Callan should be pleased."

Ash nods and starts to sway backwards when we come to an end. The President's speech is relatively cut short. The same blah about how this is prosperous for the country, something about sacrifice and then the rest about how we're fulfilling our duty as citizens of Panem.

I believe in respect for those in authority. But authorities such as teachers, parents, elders who have lived a full life somehow through the depressive state they must have gone through.

The President is not such an authority. It's hard to keep the anger from showcasing itself on the expression I send up when I go to get one last look. I can try to remain optimistic about what might happen to our country in the future, but with him at the helm, I know such a time is far off.

It's better to focus myself on the here and now, rather than possibilities that may never come to be. My parents would want me to keep my head out the clouds, so that's what I'll do. Focus, focus, focus. It's the best way of winning, the best way of making it home to thank them for everything they've done for me.

Sometimes being a richer member of Twelve, it left me feeling a little less cohesion than those who do suffer, who band together to survive. If – when – I see them, I won't let a day go by without letting them know how thankful I am – how much I love them.

This is putting everything into perspective. Being here. Seeing what it's like. How much evil can be caked under the obliviousness left to cheer in the stands.

It makes me sick. But it also makes me believe more in what I can do. I'm not blind to what happens, but I'm not sucked into a place of life I can't get out of.

Some people let bad things happen, they let it control them. I won't.

This life is the baddest of the bad. Where I am, what I'm going to have to do. I can either let it get me down and accept defeat, or take it by the horns and do everything humanely possible to show the President I'm not his own little plaything.

A toy.

A puppet.

"You know what Ash, I think we have a chance this year." The little boy lights up at that. _We have a chance. _Those were my words to give him a sense of hope. But underneath that lies a darker edge, a side that makes me feel guilt for what has to happen.

I don't mean we. There is no we.

I mean me. I. Myself.

I have a chance – a chance I won't let slip through my fingers. I'm the one making it back home. Come hell or high water, there has to be a way for that to come true.

* * *

**And the results for those you predict will be a bloodbath are...!:**

**1st:**** Riva Buchanan – 12 votes  
2nd:**** Soren Ansel – 11 votes  
3rd:**** Ash Rowe – 10 votes  
4th: ****Celeste Damount – 9 votes  
5th:**** Assisi Umbria + Chiffon Vander + Dilara Donovan – 8 votes  
6th:**** Meva Ralline – 5 votes  
7th:**** Tallis Altier + Alfie Caulfield + Tamarin Bray + Cayden Armani + Sayla Reinhardt + Clarence Higbee – 3 votes  
8th:**** Lysander Davenport + Septimius Cort + Evander Eldegwy – 2 votes  
9th: ****Sheen Howell + Gemini Leole + Raegan Kalis + Charles Craft + Etolie Laville – 1 vote  
10th:**** Dario Marston + Leven Foxe – 0 votes**

**N****ext poll is up on my profile asking for who you think will make it to the final eight. Again, it's not want, so no bias please for your favorites (unless your favorites are those who you actually see making it). When I ask who you ****think**** will make it to the final eight, I'm asking for your actual eight choices, so if you can, please vote for eight tributes. I've give****n ****the eight votes, so use them all :P**

* * *

_**Favorite POV?**_

* * *

**Halfway through the first part of the Capitol where the tributes get their second POV! We're making progress! I'm really trying to get this done as fast as I can. The Games are so much more fun to write, I'm excited, I hope you all are as well!**

**I wanted to get an update out every two days, but I'm gone for the most part of tomorrow and the weekend, so guess that won't happen. Maybe an update Sunday, I'm not sure. Still, I know the fast updates might be hard to review, but I still appreciate whatever you have to say, it helps motivate me so much more!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	10. All or Nothing

**Chapter Ten.**

* * *

**Training Day One.**

* * *

**Lysander Davenport, 18 years old;  
District One Male.**

* * *

The second I walk into the training room, everything comes into immediate focus. From the stations at the far left where those who can't handle weapons go to learn how to survive otherwise, to those where the true victors come to harness their potential.

Then, the central podium, where standing on a metal plate elevated above the tributes is presumably the Head Trainer. It isn't his frightening expression, or the golden glint to his teeth that I'm here for, it's the individuals gathered round him.

At the very back waving me over is Tallis, curled brown hair streaming down her back. She's beautiful, that much anyone with working eyes can see. It's what's in her head that will let her down though – the fact there doesn't really seem to be much there. My District partner is a decent girl, however, so I quickly hurry over to her and smile, placing a hand on her shoulder for a brief moment.

"You left before I could say hello," I whisper. Best not to get the Head Trainer angry at me by talking too loud, who knows the influence he might have over the Gamemakers and their decision. What he observes here could be knowledge he imparts onto them – I don't want to be put down by anyone. The whole stick to the shadows strategy works only for those who really don't have the skill to back themselves with up front and personal.

Unless, we're talking in terms of emotions, relationships and everything else. There are a hundred possibilities here in this room, all of which will help push me to the final and then back home. First, step one is to put together the alliance.

Then, work out how to use it for my own advantage.

"Enjoy your time here but remember, what you learn in this room is what will save you. Neglect it, well, you have seen what happens to twenty-three of the tributes. Do what you can to enhance the possibility of the tribute leaving alive being you. After all, only one can survive."

He waves us away and with a curt nod, departs for the sidelines. Peacekeepers stand to attention, something I'd expect. Most tributes must be intelligent enough to know early fighting only worsens what could happen to you in the Arena if a rivalry has already been made. But the uncivilized amongst us, I wouldn't put it past them to rile up someone.

Anything to get a rise out of those suffering from fear for their inevitable death. I just have to remain composed, vigilant and aware of everything that's going on. That way, no one will get the jump on me before I get the jump on them.

It's all part of this year's Games. If someone has to take control, I'll gladly be the player that does his bit for himself, and the Capitol's entertainment.

"Follow me, we'll head together to a station and wait to see what the others do. Scope out how they deal with the pack mentality."

Tallis probably doesn't understand a word of what I'm saying, but she nods happily and stays by my side. Sort of like a pet in a way, but I don't want to degrade her to such a level. The girl's a follower who has people's best interests at heart. Weakness after weakness, but endearing. At least I know I have someone by my back through thick and thin.

Until I don't need her anymore.

"Don't look straight at her, but the girl from Four is starting at us," I whisper in Tallis' ear as we arrive at a station dedicated to swordsmanship. Tallis straightens her back and starts laughing. Diverting attention from what we're witnessing. Good. Perhaps there's more than air between her ears.

"Boy from Nine is also staring but not with quite the same eagerness in his eyes. District Two is together but so far seems unaware of where we are or if they even want to be with us." I continue to scan over the training room, taking in hints of what people are doing, how they're acting, the pieces coming together in certain ways that will slowly unfold everything for me.

Tallis would give away everything if she turned her head, so she keeps it still and draws a sword, attacking a dummy whilst listening to everything I have to say.

I prefer it this way as well, her listening, not interrupting. Not that I have anything against a person who's trying to form a connection, it's just when I'm trying to ascertain who and what I have to work with, if they get in my way... I know there are holes in the plan. Holes that I need to fill in as quickly as I can.

"Four are both coming now, from opposite ends of the room. Two will soon follow, now Four have made the first move. And that boy from Nine..."

When the two District pairs arrive and the necessary introductions are made, I continue to follow him: the way he weaves between stations whilst keeping his eyes focused on everything I in particular do.

What's his game? His motivations?

Then he nods his head, grins, and turns away.

Fake.

I know the very essence of pretend. The young man doesn't like us.

And I think – I know – that it's something I can use. Bit by bit, it's all falling into place.

* * *

**Raegan Kalis, 18 years old;  
District Five Female.**

* * *

_Stop staring at me. _I continue to look away each time the trainer's eyes try to meet mine. If he wants something, come to me. I'm not going to facilitate some stalker.

_Oh shit. _He starts moving in my direction. Maybe I shouldn't have wished for that. I straighten my back, give my hair a little flourish and stand waiting. Preparing, too. Whatever he wants, I'll be ready.

"Kalis."

W-What...?

"That's a famous name here. Saewlyn Kalis. Sarus Kalis. Did you get to see them?"

I stare, stunned, shocked as the man smiles. He knows my parents? It's been an hour since training started, but the idea of trying to perfect everything I can do in three days seems to fall to the back of mind. Then comes the sadness, the fact that...

"No, no I didn't." The memory of me asking yesterday, being told they wouldn't be allowed to see me, it made that childhood fantasy crumble into pieces. I volunteered to be here in the city that took my parents from me, the city they spoke about more than their own daughters. And I couldn't even say hello to them.

"Maybe you'll get to see them before you go," he grips my elbow and then walks away, back to this station.

_Maybe I will._

Or if I don't before, then after, surely that's the greatest chance of seeing them. Having them answer my questions. Witness what they have to say.

I need that shot of returning home. The best way for someone from Five to win the Hunger Games. But what is it?

"Nine seems like a worthy competitor. Someone we should keep a closer eye on."

The boy from One has a voice that carries over the training room. Some ignore him, but I choose to turn and stare at the group talking amongst themselves. They're all carrying some sort of weapon, something deadly, something that will soon be used to kill each and every one of us eventually. But if I'm there... amongst them. In their alliance.

"Alright Raegan." I shake my parents' memory from my head, for this moment, composure is imperative. "Don't screw this up."

Confidence is what they'll want. Strength. Talent. I walk over and repeat every quality I know such people look for in those they seek out to ally with. Usually no one from outer Districts is even considered, but maybe they'll make an exception. My sister always told me our wealth made us out to be citizens not even suited for Five.

Maybe they'll sense that in me. Maybe they'll give me that shot to make it out alive without realizing they're jeopardizing their own lives.

"Good morning," I arrive and plant my feet on the outside of their ring. Almost in tune to one another, every head turns to face me. Some friendlier than others. Some apprehensive. Most seem curious, that's a good start.

"Good morning Raegan." The boy from One leads up the conversation, taking the central spot. _So he knows my name? _I know his type – clever, too clever for their own good. He'll suss me out if I give him something to ruin.

"I'll cut to chase because I know you're all very busy. But I couldn't help but overhear your conversation about Nine. You said something along the lines of-"

"Keeping a closer eye on him." Lysander finishes for me, smiling. "Are you someone we should also keep a closer eye on?"

"Because if you are, I think there's only one way to fix that." The girl from Four steps forwards with an intimidating smirk on her face. Or what she perceives as intimidating. I know her type – I am, after all, partly who she is. There's more chance of the boy from Three wining this than her being able to actually scare me.

Sluts have their own aura, I can sense it.

"Now, now. No need to scare Raegan."

I laugh and flip my hair over my shoulder. _Confidence. _"It takes more than that to scare me."

_Strength. _"In fact, I think the boy from Nine shouldn't be your first priority. I look the part, and I fit the part."

Gemini stiffens up, crossing her arms round her chest. "Prove it."

_Talent. _I extend a hand. Gemini scoffs and passes me the sword blade first. I grip onto it and ignore the chances of it cutting me – the sharpness of such a thing. Switching hands and gripping the handle, I move over to the first dummy and relax my shoulders.

This isn't me, but this is who I have to be.

I slice the head off as cleanly and precisely as I can, before going on the offensive, lunging at different limbs and cutting it up through slashes that blur through the air. Once I'm finished, my lungs and arms ache, but that's a sign of weakness.

A sign of something Lysander will sniff out.

I smile and pass the sword back. "So?"

He nods his head, laughs, and extends a hand. "Welcome to the Careers."

* * *

**Charles Craft, 18 years old;  
District Six Male.**

* * *

"Couldn't help but hear you lovely ladies are looking for another ally."

With my hands on either shoulder of both the girl from Nine and the tough-looking, kick ass blonde from Eleven, I lean forwards and smile.

"We said nothing of the sort."

Dilara looks a tad too cold for my taste, but Tamarin seems to perk up at the added attention. I can relate to that. "Sorry, my mistake. Haven't reached that bit yet. Well, look no further."

Both girls raise their eyebrows, turning to stand up and look me over. It feels strange being analyzed by two people who are, to put it bluntly, enemies. Killers. Whatever someone more negative would like to call them when really, they're me. Well, not me. I'm not a girl. But in general, a teenager. Just a kid, basically. Someone with hopes and dreams and aspirations and maybe... a crush. Dilara's face could turn a man blind but underneath that layer of disgust, I'm sure lies a warm heart yearning for affection. All it takes is a little bit of hard work and people will recognize and relate to what you can offer.

Al would always tell me I was a bit too loud and proud for my own good. Britt would laugh and slap me on the back in that way she went about the place. Brightening it up. Lighting everything with her blonde hair, her beautiful eyes, her...

"I'm starting to doubt you really are what we want." Dilara clicks her fingers and I snap to it, blinking the memories from my eyes. Oops.

"If anyone's going to be wearing the trousers in this alliance, it ain't him."

Tamarin and Dilara start laughing. I join in at my own expense, because they're right. I'm not exactly put together well in the head, that's not my style, it's more throw yourself in and hope for the best. But they seem to be taking kindly to me.

I'm not even sure how two people who seem the complete polar opposite of one another joined up in the first place. But, like any risk taker, I thought it was best to take this opportunity by the horns and throw myself out there.

Looks like things are working out rather well.

"Hm, this is how I see it. I'm the leader, obviously." Dilara snorts, to which I poke her in the face, shutting her up for a minute. "Tamarin can be the brains and the beauty. Dilara can be the mascot!"

"The fuck you call me-" Dilara takes a step forwards with her hands on her hips, leaning up to reach my height. Before she can react to me laughing, and Tamarin blatantly giggling by her side, someone else joins the fray.

"Whatsup folks!"

"Great, another one." The beauty from Eleven rolls her eyes and takes a step back, returning to pout mode. Tamarin stares at the boy from Ten, Cayden or something. He's a bit too in your face for my liking...

Oh who am I kidding? He's basically just done what I did.

"Welcome to the group, Cayden Armani!"

Dilara starts to say something along the lines of there is no group, but Tamarin beats her to the punch, shutting her up again. I'm starting to see why the girl has so many frown lines, people don't ever seem to let her speak, what else can she do but pull that face.

I can't blame them for reacting to her like that when what comes out her mouth isn't the best at drawing together people. After all, being our age, no one wants a sour little missus ruining the vibe. Although I suppose the Hunger Games are already doing a good job at that.

"All I had to say was whatsup and you're letting me join?" Cayden looks around at the three of us and starts laughing. "Well, that was easier than I thought."

"So, I'm the leader. Tamarin the brains and beauty. Cayden the second-rate brawn because I can do more than lead. And then Dilara the-"

"Mascot," she finishes with a hiss.

"That's right!"

Cayden stares at me with the same sort of eyebrow-raise as the two girls did a few minutes ago. If he's trying to scrutinize my actions, well, I won't let some kid show me up in front of two beautiful ladies I'm trying to impress. I want a team more than anything, working by myself just doesn't seem the way for me to go about this. Not alone. I'm not the independent, think for yourself sort of guy. If Cayden tries to get in my way, I'll be more than happy to give him the heave-ho.

Only, instead of saying something about being second rate brawn, he starts laughing again and claps me on the shoulder. "You got it boss. Charlie, Cayden, Tamarin and Dilara. We've got the whole package."

Tamarin and Cayden both follow me easily as I lead them to what I presume is a good station to start at. The one with pointy things. But Dilara with her angry little face stays back, glaring at us.

Instead of saying anything about the way I might have taken over. Or Cayden abruptly showing up and acting like second in command, she takes a step forwards and balls her hands into fists.

"Charlie, Cayden, Tamarin and Dilara. Why am I last?"

Instead of replying, the three of us start cracking up. Dilara's a keeper, definitely. Funny in a way, and I like funny.

It'll make this a whole lot easier. Especially when everyone else is trying to kill us.

* * *

**Ash Rowe, 14 years old;  
District Twelve Male.**

* * *

Perched above the training room, clinging to the top of the climbing course, everything looks much smaller. From here I can point and pick out Riva on her own, practicing with various knives of all shapes and sizes.

The Careers with their new member: the girl from Five, who struts around with her head high, mirroring the confidence her fellow allies emanate so easily, whilst hers shouts out fake. Everyone, they're all at my fingertips, it's like with each new person I come across I'm getting another part of the human spectrum of emotion.

They each react in their own special way to today's situation – the whole situation. The Games mean something different to everyone, a part of me is quite intrigued to see more, another part disgusted. Most people here are innocents caught in a system they had no choice but to be a part of.

Somewhere though, is the ally for me. And that's why I'm here. To find that someone. Riva's older, stronger, and with a head on her shoulders to match the mentality of the strongest competitor. Despite her smiles lies a person I know could potentially... back-stab.

"Ugh," I cling on harder. Such a happy girl but she has that essence about her. A girl willing to do everything.

I have a mother at home and friends, but there's a part of me that doesn't want to succumb to the corruption and all that. I don't want the smiles I can so easily give to everyone become something false, something caked in the consequences of taking a life.

I need an ally I can trust. An ally I can help so it distracts me from what I might slowly become.

"You're not holding it right."

I look down abruptly at the disgruntled voice of a trainer. The boy at his side fidgets with a throwing knife of some sorts, every second or so he switches hand to wipe his sweaty palm on his trouser leg. I start laughing to myself and go lower down the climbing wall.

"I'm holding it how you told me to hold it." He snaps, before brightening red. "Sir. I mean, I'm probably doing it wrong. You know what you're talking about."

"That's right. Now, do it again."

Before the boy from Three can make attempt number whatever it is, I land with a gentle thump and clap a hand down onto his shoulder. The surly man in front of us doesn't take too kindly to my surprise arrival and glares at me.

"This is a one on one tutorial."

I wrinkle my nose. "That's disgusting. He's a child."

The man's jaw lowers. Soren, I believe his name is, widens his eyes and stares at me. Luckily, unlike the man who storms off and away from his own station – his own job – Soren starts chuckling quietly, his shoulders bobbing up and down.

His laughs, like any laugh might do, spurns me on. Gives me that boost and urge to continue. He's the right ally for me. Weak, maybe. A pushover, probably. But trustworthy, definitely. He doesn't have it in him to turn on me – it makes him perfect, because we can help one another, rather than fret about potential betrayal.

"I'm Ash, Ash Rowe. District Twelve."

He nods and extends a hand to meet my own. "Soren Ansel. Three. I'm from District Three."

"Now that that's out the way, how about we help each other learn how to throw knives. He obviously wasn't helping."

Soren gazes down at the knife held between his fingers at an angle even I can tell is incorrect. I stare up at the target and take a knife in my own hand from the rack, positioning it how I think I've seen it held before. Past Hunger Games are good for one thing: the tips are endless.

"Now, bend your elbow I guess." I lean back, glancing over at Soren who mirrors my posture. Gently flicking forwards with my wrist, the knife leaves my fingertips and... and...

Misses the target completely.

Both our knives hit the wall behind where they should be, clattering to the ground. Soren and I look at each other at the same time, his face erupting in an embarrassed blush, my own starting to go red with a laugh I bite back down.

Something tells me it'll only make him feel worse if I laugh at his attempt. Even though I did just as bad, poor Soren probably feels like this only makes his chances seem even smaller. I don't want that. I don't want to lower his confidence even more.

I want to bring it out, make him and what's inside shine. That's the least I can do for a guy in need. I'm not the most selfless person around, I'm here for my own reasons too, but it's good to retain a sense of humanity. A sense of who I am.

"Attempt number two?" I stare at him, then at the knives, and raise an eyebrow.

Losing the embarrassment for a split second, Soren nods timidly and goes to reach for another weapon. "I guess so."

"Good choice. After all, from one ally to another, I pretty much suck at everything else. Except for climbing."

I don't think he was expecting that. For the rest of today, the short time that's left, the word ally hangs between the pair of us. Making me smile. Creating an air of satisfactory silence.

He's happy.

I'm happy.

That's all I need.

* * *

**And the results for who you think will reach the final eight. Top two are probably pretty obvious by how the other polls went, but here they are anyway xD:**

**1st: Lysander Davenport + Leven Foxe – 11 votes  
2nd: Sheen Howell – 10 votes  
3rd: Etolie Laville – 9 votes  
4th: Dario Marston – 8 votes  
5th: Charles Craft – 7 votes  
6th: Raegan Kalis – 6 votes  
7th: Gemini Leole + Septimius Cort – 4 votes  
8th: Tallis Altier + Meva Ralline + Evander Eldegwy + Tamarin Bray + Cayden Armani + Dilara Donovan – 3 votes  
9th: Chiffon Vander + Sayla Reinhardt – 2 votes  
10th: Celeste Damount + Ash Rowe + Riva Buchanan – 1 vote  
11th: Soren Ansel + Assisi Umbria + Alfie Caulfield + Clarence Higbee – 0 votes**

**Next poll doesn't have anything to do with the Games themselves, honestly it's just a bit of fun and me being curious about what you look for in a character. Who would you pick to be allies with? I've left it open for five votes, so yeah, go ahead and I'll post the results along with the next chapter like always!**

* * *

_**Favorite POV?**_

* * *

**So, alliances have started to come together, though nothing is for certain until the end of training:**

**The Careers + Raegan Kalis  
Charles Craft + Tamarin Bray + Cayden Armani + Dilara Donovan  
Soren Ansel + Ash Rowe**

**That's the beginning of training. I'm trying to work out some kind of correct balance for me between thought and action, though if I'm honest I always seem to go more into how they perceive everything than how they are on the outside through talking. I'm trying to work on it xD**

**Anyway more training days to come, more alliances! There's been a bit of a dip in reviews, not trying to push for them, it's up to you at the end of the day, but I'd appreciate it if you could spare a minute just to say something. Every little helps :P **


	11. Intentions

**Chapter Eleven.**

* * *

**Training Day Two.**

* * *

**Meva Ralline, 18 years old;  
District Three Female.**

* * *

He stares at me hesitantly when I take a seat next to him. Down on the ground, we both sit cross-legged, him staring at the berries piled in front, me focused entirely on his face.

"Clarence, right?"

The boy from Eleven looks up at me, nods, then returns to his work. The same sullen, solitary expression is on his face as he sorts through some of the berries. For someone so quiet, he's a hard worker. Someone rooted in their actions. I know the sort – the type with a kind spirit trapped in a colder, more detached body.

I like that. It's endearing. It means he's not someone loud, over the top, or idiotic, but he's also not a bad person. The right intentions without the right actions.

"I'm Meva. Meva Ralline. I hope you don't mind me sitting here. It's just I've been wandering around and haven't found a station that's really caught my eye." He continues to stare at me as I ramble on and on. At least unlike Soren he doesn't seem to draw back and hide away, he actually seems hooked onto every word. I like that. The appreciation, I had it from my parents who I miss terribly, I think I need it in an ally.

Maybe Clarence is the right person?

"Anyway, these berries seem cool, don't you think? It's good to learn stuff like this. I've always seen some Games where people have died because they had no idea that what they were eating was poisonous. Is that why you're here?"

"I... I er-"

I stare at him and start to laugh, edging closer. "Sorry. Sometimes it's hard for me to keep my mouth closed you know. I have a lot to say. My mother used to say it's just because I was too smart so my brain needed a way of getting rid of some of the stuff-"

"You're doing it again."

I look down and blush, smiling. Where there was once a sullen, locked expression, Clarence is ever so slightly grinning. He doesn't even seem put off by the close contact, my knee gently touching against his. Not that there's not enough room, but I've always had that close connection at home with people, it just doesn't feel right being away from others.

I know what some people are capable of, what we all harbor deep down, the potential to do bad. But not everyone who thinks bad thoughts are bad people.

"I think we'd make a good team. If you... you know... wanted to." Great, now I sound like Soren, stuttering over myself. If there's one thing I made sure I'd never let happen here was the potential to crumble down. Let the situation take control over me and make me someone that I'm not. I've always felt happy in my own body, something that admittedly makes me pity Soren for his inability to find confidence. I need to be around someone that allows me to do that without feeling like I'm under constant scrutiny.

"Are you sure you want to be with... me? I mean, I'm not some Career."

"If I wanted to join the Careers I'd go and kill a some poor helpless animal just to impress them. I'm asking you because you seem like a genuine guy. You don't get a lot of that round here."

He smiles at this, taking the compliment. I'm happy to make him feel accepted. That District partner of his, the one with the large group now, the quartet. Out of the four, she's the one that stays back, glares at them and trudges along. Clarence is a softer version of that – she has hate inside of her, he doesn't.

She'd stab a person in the back. Clarence wouldn't.

I can tell these things – people watching, whatever it's called, I'm happy that it's a talent of mine. Assessing the character of those around me.

"If you really think we'd be good together, how could I say no?"

I pat him on the back, laughing. "Easy. You don't."

"Then it's a yes. A big yes."

He extends a hand to reach for one of the berries. I watch him rather than join in straight away. Being from Eleven I'm sure this is something he does day to day. Stereotypes and all. Eleven tributes aren't all berry pickers, orchard climbers and rebels in training, but sometimes you get those that adhere to expectations.

Clarence knows what he's doing. I stare, watching intently as each berry is sorted. Most to me look the same, but soon enough once he gets a perfect score, I ask him to go into detail. It works. I start spotting the little differences in each one: the color, the shape, the texture.

"I'm glad to have met you Clarence," I nudge him, feeling the smile only grow wider.

He's the right one for me, where we're going. If I'm going to die, I'd much rather do it at a friend's side.

It seems like I've found that friend.

* * *

**Assisi Umbria, 16 years old;  
District Five Male.**

* * *

Either side of the hall we have the Peacekeepers, standing attentively, waiting, biding their time for those fights they so relish to break apart.

I watch a rather stout, rounded Peacekeeper fidget on the spot. Newbie, definitely. I can spot the telltale signs; perks of working so very closely to these wonderful officials without ever being spotted. Tricks of the trade.

"'Scuse me." I sidle up closer to him and watch the black metallic sheet tilt ever so slightly, meaning he's making eye contact. I've always hated this part about their uniform. Eyes give a lot away: fear, restlessness, anger, but with them they're all stone cold as the last. Oh well.

"I'd like to report something."

He straightens up his sagging shoulders and nods his head curtly. "And what is that... tribute?"

Hesitant on the tribute. I've always felt a sense of degradation since being here and having that term used repeatedly. It's dehumanizing. I can tell he's new by the way it makes him uncomfortable having to generalize us all under one term.

I've been called plenty of things over my life. Plenty of insults and attacks that have probably made me what I am today. Tribute is just another thing to add to the list.

"The trainers round here are meant to be helpful. It's in their job description, I'm pretty sure anyway. I'd like to report that rather ugly man over there with the bald spot. He's not doing it properly."

The Peacekeeper clears his throat awkwardly and starts to slouch again. "Not doing what properly?"

"Teaching me how to use a gun."

There's silence for a few seconds as it dawns on him what I've just said. Sure, guns aren't permitted, but they're present in this room, present in a place we were told to train with weapons. All weapons, it wasn't made specific what we _shouldn't _be allowed to use. The only rule was not to fight amongst ourselves.

Save it for the Arena.

Where's the stipulation that says we cannot shoot some bullets?

"Tributes are not permitted to use firearms."

"Where does it say that?" I arch an eyebrow, smirking. Honestly, I'm not even sure why I'm doing this. The boredom, probably. Everything in this room is just on a miniature scale to what's waiting for us in the actual Arena. We can play pretend all we like, make our little alliances and friendships, swallow some kind of fake happy pill that gives us a buzz and a sense of pretend that allows us to actually believe that connections we make here will stick.

It's all crap. This room is made up of pretty girls, pretty boys, strong girls, strong boys, and then those that fall under the radar. Completely the opposite to anything the Capitol wants.

Players and pawns.

If anything, annoying a Peacekeeper is training in a sense. If I can unnerve a person who's been through more training than the strongest Career here, I'm sure I can do the same if given half a second to worm my way into their heads.

Newbies are still Peacekeepers. No matter his size he's still meant to be chiseled to perfection in that head of his. A stone cold, heartless warrior for the Capitol.

"It has been a well known fact stated by the Capitol that during the Hunger Games there are to be no firearms used unless specifically specified by the Gamemakers as some sort of twist." He straightens his back, losing that cowardly hint. Well, well. Seems I was right, newbies are still tough. "There has only been one Games, the first, where such an exception was made. And the rules were rectified so only bladed or blunt weapons were to be permitted. Now, please leave... tribute."

"_In _the Hunger Games. I'm not in the Hunger Games yet. I'd like to train with a gun."

He freezes again. I can almost see his eyes widening then squinting, trying to work me out. The annoyance is clearly seeping into his tone and the way he stands. If he had no restraint, I'm sure he'd have pushed or punched me away – but right now, he can't. Or, he won't. Not sure which.

"What are you training for? In this room you learn skills that may come up in your time spent inside the Arena. There will be no guns to use."

"Hm, true. Accuracy maybe? If I can shoot a target I could probably translate those skills onto a bow or a knife."

"You're wasting time."

I laugh. "You're wasting your life."

"Excuse me?"

"Wasting your life on a job that only the self-righteous and domineering decide to take. It's not about keeping the peace, it's about being a bully. I know your type." I take a step back and raise my hands up defensively when he moves in my direction; me hitting an obvious nerve. "I've all of a sudden lost the urge to hold a gun. If you'll excuse me, thanks for wasting my time."

I don't bother waiting to hear his reply. Instead, I find the darkest corner and slump down against the wall, staring out at the hot red-head from Four as she trains.

If there's one good thing this time gives me, it's the sights. Girls like the Careers blow me away.

Until they're literally trying to kill me.

Oh well, might as well savor the time. There's a lot of fun to be had. Why waste it?

* * *

**Septimius Cort, 14 years old;  
District Eight Male.**

* * *

I can't take three steps without _her _getting in the way. Annoying me.

Chiffon pushes her way in front of my strides, blocking the station I was about to head to. Plants for medicinal purposes have always been something of an interest of mine, and since I'm not about to win any prizes for strongest or best looking, it seems my only way of surviving this godforsaken game is by using my brain.

Only, Chiffon the stubborn, narcissistic, pain in the neck, seems hell-bent on destroying any chance either of us have at winning.

"You do realize stalking is a crime." I shove my hands in my pockets, glaring at her. Chiffon says if I pull such expressions too much, one day the wind will change and I'll never be able to stop looking like I have some kind of sharp stick up my... rear end.

She's also a very vulgar girl. Traits I despise in a person all shoved and mixed together inside one human being.

Sometimes, I can try to take it with such people. Other times, get in my way, there's like a little part that can't help but react.

I think it's such reactions that drive her forwards.

"Says you. Has the girl from Seven reported you then?"

"Huh...?" I look down at the ground, pretending not to notice the invading sense of embarrassment. Damn Chiffon. Ever since that girl walked onto her chariot it's been hard to get her out of my head. Romantic reasons are not part of anything, there isn't an infatuation there, but it's just... if I'm going to shed apart some layer of what I have for an ally, I feel like it should be someone I can relate with more.

She doesn't seem the sort to suffer fools gladly. If that's the case, Etolie is my kind of person.

But if I'm coming across as a stalker? I don't want to be perceived as a petty, awkward schoolboy pining after a crush.

"I'll have you know, it is pure coincidence that Etolie trains at the stations I have attempted to train at."

"Bullshit," Chiffon snorts, jabbing a finger against my chest. Leering over me, she starts laughing and pushes me backwards. "I know that face. Ickle Septimius loves the bitch. Got to hand it to you, at least you're going for someone who can handle your attitude. You're practically made for each other."

Before I can get another word in, Chiffon storms past me and off to another side of the hall. It's probably for the best I keep my mouth shut and don't shout something back. It'll only spur her on come the future and make her so much more of a nuisance.

Where Chiffon was standing and blocking the way, I can now see Etolie gazing over various plants, pulling apart leaves and twiddling the stems. _Don't let her get to you. _Chiffon has a weird, confused way of seeing the world and people's desires – this isn't a crush, it's an opportunity for a strong, capable ally.

Chiffon's just jealous. No one wants her so she's trying to ruin my own chances of company, of a greater shot at making it far... even winning. Well, screw her.

I ball my hands into fists. It's rare for someone to get to me so much, but it's like her nails are dug so deep, every word that leaves her mouth rakes down my spine and makes everything turn a nasty shade of red.

_Composure. _I take a deep breath and try to shake away such fury. Etolie is the focus. Not Chiffon. Never Chiffon.

"Hello Etolie." Once I'm by her side, I do as best I can to come across as friendly. She turns to me with narrowed lips and accusatory eyes, searching for something. A weakness, maybe? A flinch?

I keep as still as I can, a small smile on my face, and slowly she attempts to at least return it, her lips doing a weird little twitch upwards.

"Good afternoon, Cort."

She chuckles before returning to her work. "Y-You heard me didn't you, on the chariot talking to my District partner?"

"I think everyone could hear you. If it helps, I like the name Cort. Septimius is a mouthful."

"Thanks, that's what I always say. Glad you agree."

She looks back up and smiles, tilting her head ever so slightly. I take it as a cue to sit down and join her, crossing my legs and observing the different plants piled out in front, a manual or some sort of guide opened flat before her legs.

"I'm Mrs Lumberjack apparently, according to him I should know this."

She nods in the direction of the trainer, staring at her work with a strange sort of glint to his eye. What is it with these trainers not actually helping us learn how to, you know, train?

"Mrs Lumberjack?"

"His name," she scowls, "not mine."

I don't immediately leap in to help. Etolie comes across as the sort who will only accept defeat when there's no other alternative. Slowly, with a lot of cursing under her breath, the plants leave her hands and I take the manual in my own, pointing out certain leaves, certain patterns and watching Etolie soak it all in with eager eyes.

"You're good," she says, smiling at me once more. "More than good."

I try to fight back the blush, knowing it'll only cement the stupid teenage boy attitude if I let it. Chiffon is not right, I'll never let her be right. Etolie is the perfect ally... that's all.

"Would you like to be-"

"Allies?" She finishes, nodding. "Thought you'd never ask."

And just like that, I've found the right person. An ally. A companion. Nothing more.

* * *

**Evander Eldegwy, 17 years old;  
District Nine Male.**

* * *

Father would be furious if he knew how long I was taking. There have been countless opportunities to waltz over there and assert myself as a rightful ally. Yesterday, the monstrosity from One saw me and as much as it sickened me to do so, the smile itself felt natural enough to convince him.

But the girl from Five joining their group has knocked me off – would they consider another person? I've tried my best to train in stations closest to where they are, confidently displaying what I can do. It's wrong on so many levels to try to please such brutal beings, but it's all for the greater good: their destruction.

"We could train with some ranged weaponry. It's been a while." The brat from One pipes up from within the ring of Careers. I've observed them long enough to know no one except the leader: her District partner, takes any notice of what she has to offer. The pair from Two are close to one another, as are the two from Four. Miniature alliances within alliances. Raegan, I believe her name is, stands closer to Lysander.

Everything centers around what he has to say or do. With that shrewd, confident face of his, eloquent tongue, perceptive eye.

He's one to watch out for.

My greatest enemy.

"Evander."

I freeze on the spot, pivoting around to try and push away the focus. It's too late, though. Lysander's footsteps are heavier than most of his allies', I can tell he's coming towards me. _Now or never Evander. Make your father proud. Take the first step._

"Lysander." I plaster as much resolve and composure I can upon the heaps and heaps of hatred. My teeth grind together, but apart from that, Lysander doesn't seem to notice anything. He steps up as close as he can whilst retaining a sense of personal space, smiling down at me... kindly.

There is no kind with them, I can't forget that. This is him playing me. Enticing me in. Giving me a false safety net to fall back on.

This is what I want though – his acceptance, just until I can slit his throat and the rest of these savages.

"I've been observing you for quite some time now."

"Two days isn't that much," I smirk, letting the spear slip gradually from my fingers until the pole hits the floor. "Do I impress you?"

"Very much so, if I'm honest. There's something no one else here really has."

"And what's that?" I cock an eyebrow, waiting. This is everything Father prepared me for, why years of training were so essential. They don't let just anyone into their pack – Lysander has a plan for Raegan, I'm certain of it. Otherwise, there's no way she would have got in from that pathetic attempt at cutting apart that dummy.

It was amateurish at best, and yet he let her in. I'm curious what his game is. Yet another motivation for me to join them.

"Skill. To be frank." He lowers his voice. Over his shoulder, the girl from Four is staring at him. The boy from Two also peeling away from the quieter girl he clings to side by side day after day. Both are looking in our direction, without having to even glance at them Lysander seems aware of this.

He's target number one. Bring the leader down, chaos ensues. It's another lesson from Father.

"You don't believe your fellow allies have skill? Confidence in who you're teaming up with is important, I thought?"

He nods his head, smiling that same cocky, deceptive smile. The one that makes my skin heat up, my blood boil. "Of course it is. My goal of course is to win, that's the goal everyone here has. But everyone needs someone to rely on, loners kid themselves into believing they have what it takes to make it without some form of company. They're good enough. But you're better, maybe even as good as me."

"Arrogance. Typical."

He laughs and rolls his shoulders, looking once over at his allies and back at me. "I guess where you come from, there are stereotypes you expect us to follow. We're all the same, aren't we?"

Is he trying to coax the anger from me? My truthful, honest opinion of what these people – these monsters – do year after year? I was too young to know my sister, but Father made me watch her death on replay, over and over, to make the memory of what she had to go through stamp itself into my subconscious.

He might be looking for a rise from me, so he can tear apart my goal before it's even started. Or maybe he sees it too, what he is. It doesn't matter. Nothing will change their core, who they are on the inside. Just as I won't change what I have to do. My mission.

"It's hard to believe you can be different from what we're raised to believe. That's why I'd like to propose I join you. To see firsthand who you are, and to fight by your side."

"Guys," Lysander calls over his shoulder, now finally raising the volume. His idiotic partner is first to latch onto his side, staring up at him. Then the others follow and all turn to stare at me.

"We've found another ally."

_Step one complete._

* * *

**The next poll will be up with the following chapter. There haven't been many votes so seems pointless right now to close it. If you haven't done so, go ahead and vote :)**

* * *

_**Favorite POV?**_

* * *

**And the growing list of alliances are:**

**The Careers + Raegan Kalis + Evander Eldegwy  
Soren Ansel + Ash Rowe  
Meva Ralline + Clarence Higbee  
Charles Craft + Tamarin Bray + Cayden Armani + Dilara Donovan  
Etolie Laville + Septimius Cort**

**Only one more Capitol chapter and everyone will have had their second POV. Another quick update which should continue for the next week or so, then university begins. I have no idea what my writing schedule will become like then (by the look of my timetable though, it doesn't seem too chaotic). I'll keep you all updated!**


	12. Misunderstood

**Chapter Twelve.**

* * *

**Training Day Three.**

* * *

**Tallis Altier, 18 years old;  
District One Female.**

* * *

Lysander's hand feels strangely comforting on my shoulder. Positioning my elbow, moving my fingers and turning my body slightly to the left, he steps back and smiles at me. "Great, now pull back the string, aim and shoot."

I take a deep breath, ready myself and focus on the rings centered round the single red mark all the way down there in the target section. It's daunting being under observation, especially by Lysander. I don't want to let him down, but mainly, I don't want to let myself down.

Years of training have culminated in this one event. These three days are us Careers pretty much sharpening our arsenal and getting ready for it's true purpose. If I fail now, what was the point in me ever coming here?

"Deep breath, release on the exhale, and..." I follow his every word to the last syllable, _exhale, _and release the string. I've shot arrows before, but long range has always been a weakness of mine. The arrow quivers in the air, starts to tilt, and plummets just below the bulls eye. Good enough.

"Brilliant, considering you said most of the time you miss. See, I know what I'm talking about." He winks at me and I laugh, slamming the flat of my hand into his shoulder. He chuckles with me and begins to leave the station. I quickly place the bow back down and rush to join his side.

There's a sense of security when I'm with Lysander. Him being the leader of the Careers means if he sees me as his second in command almost, or someone he feels some kind of connection with, well when the inevitable happens, I'll have the strongest Career by my side. Defending me.

I don't want to feel useless in his eyes or mine either. It's not just about me using him as some kind of bodyguard because that's not the way I want to play this. There's no fairness implemented in the Games or a justice system, but there's honor in a weird sense. He has my back, and I have his.

"I think I'm going to go talk to Gemini, build some bridges." I smile and start to walk off. Lysander immediately twists around and bolts forwards to catch up, placing a rather firm hand on my shoulder.

"That's not necessary, besides, she looks kind of agitated. Maybe leave her in peace."

I look over at the red head and see her holding a spear in one hand and a sword in the other. As she jabs out with both weapons, the speed seems to be lacking, as does the power. And her face certainly is reflecting such anger.

"I can give her a hand then. It'd be nice, some girl time." _Over spears, swords and potential death lingering in the air. Yeah, real girly. _"See you later."

He steps forwards again. Something's up all of a sudden, a major twist in his otherwise composed face. A line in his forehead, his cheeks flushed red. "Are you alright?"

"I just don't think now is the time to go and start making other friendships when there's little time left to train."

"The day's only just started," I laugh, signaling to the clock ticking away on the opposite wall. Lysander doesn't follow my finger and stares at me, narrowing his eyes.

"Maybe I could help you out more. You said it yourself, I know an awful lot that you could benefit from."

_What's going on? _There's almost desperation in his voice. Or is it jealousy? I start to smile, my body filling with warmth. He wants me by his side because he sees me as his true friend here. It's kind of cute in a... creepy way.

"I'll come find you later. Honestly, I'm fine. It'd be nice to get to know the others. A group that knows each other will function better. There'll be less tension, I promise."

He opens his mouth to say something else, but then thinks of something else, closing it. A small, hesitant smile spasms across his face and he nods, stepping backwards. "Alright then, I'll see you later."

I turn with a jump and jolt forwards, running towards Gemini. She must hear me coming because she stops her attacks and looks over her shoulder, smiling.

"Tallis."

"Er, Gemini." I join her side and pick up a leftover spear. "Having trouble?"

She stares at me for a moment and shakes her head, but when my eyes travel over the meager job she's made of cutting apart these dummies, her shoulders sag and she drops her head.

"I'm not as good as expected."

_I know all about that, nothing's ever as perfect when it's me doing it. _Gemini's sombre expression starts to bring about enough of the insecurities I've felt for far too long over the years. She stares at me and smiles sadly, gripping onto the spear and letting the sword clatter to the ground.

"But hey, I can still look hot doing it, right!" She laughs and dives straight back into it. Her enthusiasm despite the internal war raging inside her head is inspiring. I don't want her to feel hatred for what she can do. I've noticed she's been all about looks and talk rather than action, but who's to say we can't use that?

Motivation can be achieved through words rather than strength.

Gemini can be a morale booster. An asset despite what she might perceive herself as.

"You're better than you think you are."

As long as others can feel good, then I feel content. It's a cycle I'm happy with. A cycle that can make me stronger in the Games, or tear me apart completely. I just hope it's the former.

* * *

**Sheen Howell, 18 years old;  
District Four Male.**

* * *

Behind me, walking closer, I can sense her presence. Creeping up on me tiptoe by tiptoe.

I pretend not to notice and shove my face deeper into the thin, crisp pages of the twentieth book I've gone through. Each one is choc-full of useful tidbits about everything we could come into contact with, or have to use.

There are even little snippets on past Hunger Games. The Victors and their stories. Everyone else in our alliance is so focused learning things they've already mastered, whilst these babies have limitless information. Knowledge even I won't be able to soak up in the time we have left.

Shame. I could do with five more days at least.

"Excuse me."

I look up, act surprised and lean forwards with a relaxed smile. Raegan returns it and slumps down next to me, craning her neck to get a better look at the book.

I've been told too many times that to most it looks like a jumble of nothing spaced out between black and white pictures. To the untrained eye, sure. But I know what each and every book has in store, and I'm trying not to be afraid of being known as the weak one because of it.

I know I'm not weak, it's just a matter of perception. Weak can be classed as those with emotional problems, or those with physical hindrances.

It's all down to personal opinion.

"What can I do for you?"

"Well," she clears her throat awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. "I was wondering why you're... you know... reading."

"I as in we, right?" I smile at Raegan's awkward blush. She doesn't come across this way when we're all grouped together and discussing strategy and tactics, but separately I've seen her move around with hesitation and restraint. I don't blame her. She's an outsider.

Evander has training to fall back on. She has whatever pretense she can maintain. It's interesting to see how people adapt to this group. How the same sorts of people are so different from one another.

"Well, I guess. _We _as in me and District Two." She nods at the opposite side of the training hall, right where Leven and Dario immediately shy away and go back to pretending to focus on the throwing knives they're holding.

I shake my head and laugh, closing the book shut with a snap. "It'd be less obvious if they weren't facing away from the targets."

Raegan's face falls and she shrugs, sliding ever so slightly to the left. Away from me.

"I don't bite. I'm not some foreign species you should be scared of. People read books you know, that's what they're there for."

"But..." she bites her lip and silences immediately. I don't want to admit that her slight misunderstood interpretation of me stings a little. I've put up with it all through my life at the Academy. Through every trial thrown my way I did everything to push and shove myself atop that pedestal.

I've tried to be someone despite what to others is a weakness.

I didn't want to be judged here for something that will benefit us all. And me. I can't forget about that. I'm not foolish enough to let the group cloud my true goal here. To win. To do that, they all have to die. A little added planning on the side helps.

"I'm guessing in Five you don't really expect this side to us."

She shakes her head and smiles awkwardly. "Not really. You're all brawn and no brain. No offense."

"None taken," I laugh and take out a book I flicked through earlier, opening a page on a particular diagram labeling out the human body: muscles, bones, organs, everything fleshed out in surprisingly riveting detail.

"That's gross," she turns her nose up and shies away. Instead of giving in, I point out the torso area, reading off what the page happens to say. For me, this is gold in the form of words. The best way for me to reach my fullest potential.

For Raegan, I suppose it's going through one ear and out the other. But that doesn't mean I can't _try _to make her see.

"You can't learn this stuff by throwing a knife at a dummy that just stands there, full of cotton."

"Red cotton," she points out, frowning. "Red like blood."

"Well red cotton is still nothing like the complexity that our skin hides from our view. Everything on this page teaches me, and could teach you and the rest, how to help treat certain wounds. The best way to learn your own body – how it works and functions. How to use it. And, fitting for the situation, how to kill efficiently."

"Is efficiency really your style?"

I stop for a moment, closing my mouth. _Of course it is. _But yet again, there's that particular way she regards me like some animal trapped behind a pane of glass. A beast. I'm something she won't ever understand just because of where I'm from and the fact that I have trained for this, whilst her reason for being here is something different. Something personal no doubt.

"I'm not a monster. I'm like you, I bet."

She smiles and pretends to understand, but I know she doesn't and never will.

I don't want to be branded forever as some kind of slave to the system – a hunk of meat that takes life and never sees the value and beauty of it. Four has always been my home, a place of peace and at the same time, a place of torment.

I don't want to let it define who I am.

I want to make my mark. Be the person I know inside I am, and always will be.

"These books are my weapon. They're what will keep me alive."

Raegan looks skeptical, but who cares. It's too complex in their heads, whilst in mine, it couldn't be simpler. That's what will take me through this, what will give me my victory.

Knowledge.

* * *

**Celeste Damount, 17 years old;  
District Six Female.**

* * *

Hours have flown by and still nothing. Today is yet a repeat of yesterday and the day before: me ambling around the room, grin plastered on my face, and rejection thrown straight back, pushing me away for.. for what... being myself?

I stare longingly at each alliance gathered round each other, huddled with whatever the station they've occupied aims to teach them.

It started off being unfair. But now it has to be me. Something I'm doing or putting out there. Something that despite my desire to be friendly, pushes away the very type of friendship I'm vying to create.

"One more try, then you have to face it." I whisper to myself, huddled tight in the corner. I considered for a brief moment asking Charlie, but his alliance is made up stronger, intimidating characters.

Friendly maybe on the exterior, but internally what will they see me as? A liability? A burden? I want a group that can function together, a group I'll be an integral part of that blends different characters together into something that _works._

Maybe I'm asking too much.

Maybe I'm just being too optimistic about people's intentions here. The alliances might not be founded on friendship... perhaps that one ideal is non-existent here.

I straighten out my shoulders and take a deep breath. Across the other side of the hall, messing around with different knives, is my last chance at finding a group. Then, I need to cram as much training in as possible to adjust to what my new status will be.

If I'm alone in there, it's twice as terrifying, twice as difficult. And I'm not about to go in there blind, having no idea what to do for myself.

But first, my last hope.

_Please._

"Hiya!" I plant myself between the two of them once I reach their little partnership. "I'm Celeste."

The girl from Three smiles at me, initiating eye contact over my shoulder with her ally – Clarence, I think. I look over at him and he tries to smile. His best attempt is probably what would be my worst.

_Maybe it's that. My enthusiasm is misunderstood as obliviousness. _I know where I am, what this is, how many get to survive. But that doesn't change what's inside of me. Who I am. People can't just be so demanding of everyone to suit a life or death match by becoming hardened beings of no emotion.

I refuse to believe that's how such a system works. Even if it means me being... alone.

"Meva and Clarence."

"Nice to meet you, soooo, what ya doing over here?"

Meva looks down at the knife, then back up at me, giggling. Waving the knife back and forth in front of my eyes, she tilts her head and gestures down to the weapon. "Isn't it obvious?"

_Oops._

"Haha, yeah..." I start to veer off, my tongue drying up. This is not how it's supposed to work out. Not the last opportunity. Everyone else has made excuses: 'there's too many members,' 'I'm not the right sort of person,' 'sorry we're looking for skilled tributes.'

The boy from Eight brushed me off yesterday before I even got to open my mouth.

"I was wondering if you wanted to-"

"Oh," Meva's face goes red, her eyes lowering. The mere gesture deflates the hope, squashing it completely. Clarence pokes me in the shoulder and I turn to face him, his expression one of... guilt? Or is that just how he naturally looks. Like he has too many regrets piled on top of one another.

"It's not you..."

"It's me." I finish for him, smiling sadly. "That's the cheesiest thing you could have said. If you don't... don't want me, please, honesty means a lot."

For a moment he looks briefly stunned, his lips closing tight. Eyes showing defeat. But as he starts to nod, I close my eyes and shake away the start of what will be my undoing. If I let the tears out, it'll break up everything I am and what I'm striving to be.

This could be fate's way of telling me my greatest hope is being by myself. If there is something wrong with me, so repellent to alliances, then perhaps I shouldn't be fighting so hard to find one.

Maybe me going alone is the... best way. The best way to outlive twenty-three other teenagers.

_How can I do that when I can't even hold a weapon... I'm dead already..._

"Thank you for your time, though. I really appreciate it."

I open my eyes and blink back the first few watery drops, shutting that side out. The barrier will not break. I won't – can't – let it.

"Celeste..."

I turn back at the sound of Meva's voice, deluded hope inflating like a balloon inside my chest. Maybe...

"Good luck."

And it bursts.

Hope of some company. Hope of having someone to watch my back. Hope of not being left alone to what rages inside my head... the despair... the fear...

But I have something. I still have myself.

That should be what matters the most to me. Being me. It's all I have left now.

* * *

**Sayla Reinhardt, 15 years old;  
District Ten Female.**

* * *

_Decide faster. _

Riva continually walks to and fro from the spear station, and then back to the one with cutting tools and planks of wood. Between each bout of pacing, she looks over at us and then forwards again, disregarding the fact that we're _still _waiting.

"She's taking a while," I breathe out restlessly. Alfie only sighs and nods his head, tying and untying a piece of string through his fingers.

_It's an important decision, _the conscious, patient side says. But this isn't one of those moments to take time – not with the clock ticking and too little time left to put together a plan. It'd be boring in my own little world, all these tactics, all these thoughts, all these meddlesome tasks of putting and pulling apart strategies.

There are countless ways of being productive about it, and Riva taking up time we could spend planning _something _of substantial merit is slowly dwindling away. I like her, it's not that. She seems strong inside and out, like there's a part we can't see.

The mystery is entrancing and hard to cope with at the same time. Every person alive has their secrets. I have mine. Alfie has his. But when it comes down to trust, a connection both easy and hard to build up... things get complicated.

"I don't want to get annoyed but... seriously..." I look once more at her tackle throwing a spear at a target, and veer off over her head, staring at a Peacekeeper rigidly tucked away into the shadows. Waiting for something.

There's something quite intriguing about these masked, uniformed men of peace. Stories untold. Dreams they must have that the Capitol corrupt them from living. It'd be interesting to see life from their perspective, hear what they have to say.

Maybe give us a little bit of time to think about how they might not actually enjoy the way they have to treat us. How it might potentially be us or them, and anyone with a rational mind would always choose themselves over people they don't know.

Should I choose myself over Riva, even Alfie?

I look down at the little boy, large ears, cute eyes, wobbly smile and push all that underneath the strongest barricade. That's not how I should be thinking.

Sowing discord into an alliance that is functioning, a partnership that works – that's not the way. He's my friend. An actual friend in this place of darkness.

That's something I never thought I'd find, and funnily enough I happened to come across him on the first day. What I put out there seems to always come back – just the way I like it. Seek unity, receive unity. I hope Alfie sees me in that light, that it's us together, for as long as that's possible.

"It's not like we need a set plan. Just something would be good. _Something _to go on." I sigh and run a hand through my hair, distracting myself from Riva and now the Peacekeeper by watching the other stations packed full of sharpened, pointed and barbed weapons.

Everything that could kill me.

Or Alfie.

And I'm in a room with people trained to wield them.

"I don't like this," I mumble, feeling a little sick.

"What?" Alfie pipes up, voice covered with concern. He looks at me, then down at my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. I try to show the appreciation for his gesture but my stomach flips and knees go shaky, causing my face to feel... numb.

"I shouldn't be here. You shouldn't. Riva shouldn't. I didn't do... do anything wrong."

"I know Sayla. You lived a good life."

I shake my head and sigh. "Not good, but content. I was... happy... ish."

"Then focus on that and fight to return there. What else can you do?"

_Die. _"I suppose. I just miss... miss everything."

"I do too."

I'm not a violent, aggressive person. Mentally or emotionally. I don't want this state of having to think bad thoughts, corrupt my state of mind when there's already so much there in such a small space. It just doesn't fit who or what I am. Who Alfie is.

Everyone makes mistakes, but not... this. Not murder.

How can that be justified for anything?

"I've made my mind up."

I shake my head and draw myself back to the situation at hand. Darkness creeps and lingers at the back of mind, suffocating everything, but right now it's focus... _focus Sayla. This isn't time for you being... you._

Riva stands, smiling. Confident. Happy. Everything we try to give out to the world, once again, we're receiving back. In the form of another ally... hopefully. Maybe. _Is she really trustworthy? Someone you can place your life in her hands and feel... safe?_

"I'd like to join your alliance."

She has to be. If I exude a sense of fear, of restraint, then what can I expect from her? We have to work out or we'll fail. It's as simple as that.

"Welcome, Riva. We're happy to have you."

"Likewise," she shakes Alfie's hand and smiles, turning to me.

I swallow down everything. Take a deep breath and nod my head, grinning.

"Glad to have you. Welcome to the team."

_Team. _We work together. We harmonize. We function as a _team. _It's either that or we die. And I'm not ready to die. I might not be the strongest mentally, physically or emotionally. I'm not all there. I'm not even sure Alfie and Riva are.

But a team will get me through this.

A team will help me win.

* * *

**And the results for who you'd be allies with!:**

**1st: Charles Craft – 6 votes  
2nd: Leven Foxe – 5 votes  
3rd: Tallis Altier + Dario Marston + Sheen Howell + Alfie Caulfield – 3 votes  
4th: Lysander Davenport + Raegan Kalis + Cayden Armani – 2 votes  
5th: Soren Ansel + Meva Ralline + Celeste Damount + Etolie Laville + Chiffon Vander + Sayla Reinhardt + Clarence Higbee + Ash Rowe + Riva Buchanan – 1 vote  
6th: Gemini Leole + Assisi Umbria + Septimius Cort + Evander Eldegwy + Clarence Higbee + Dilara Donovan – 0 votes**

**New poll! Favorite alliance and/or loner. I'll leave it open for just two votes, since it defeats the purpose if I give too many xD**

* * *

_**Favorite POV?**_

_**Favorite tribute now that everyone has had two POVs.**_

* * *

**Carrying on from that last question, yup, we've reached the stage where we start to have a few non-tribute POVs, then launch where everyone gets a little something then... THE BLOODBATH! **

**This might be where, if you read Measured in Blood, I speed update like I did for that. Probably not so fast. That was four chapters in three days. But we'll see what I can get done!**

**I have the entire Games planned out now, placings, deaths, everything. Victor too. It's been edited about a gazillion times but I think I've come up with a layout that now works better than any other draft. Just a little bit of info in case you're curious. The BB is gonna be sad for me to write ;_;**

**Oh and to finish this note off, here's a completed list of alliances and those going it alone!**

**The Careers + Raegan Kalis + Evander Eldegwy  
Soren Ansel + Ash Rowe  
Meva Ralline + Clarence Higbee  
Charles Craft + Tamarin Bray + Cayden Armani + Dilara Donovan  
Alfie Caulfield + Sayla Reinhardt + Riva Buchanan  
Etolie Laville + Septimius Cort  
Assisi Umbria  
Celeste Damount  
Chiffon Vander**


	13. One Way

**Chapter Thirteen.**

* * *

**Private Gamemaker Sessions.**

* * *

Everything would work this year.

Eroica sat with her Gamemaker robes fluffed and pushed out around her, leaving a thick, velvet cape that stretched all the way to the tip of the alcove. Her and her fellow Gamemaker were ready. Waiting.

She sat poised; a pen in one hand and a clipboard in the other. It had taken many years for her to reach this position – _Head _Gamemaker – and she wasn't about to disappoint the President today. Everything had to be perfect. Perfection for Eroica was an easy task; a woman with her life, her background, her repertoire of successful endeavours would _not _fail.

First, though, it was her time to assess and score the tributes. A mundane task, she couldn't help but think. It wouldn't effect much. Targets were already made. Alliances secured. Sponsors pretty much decided already – looks were a convincing enough device to lure in the money.

Those who had it were sponsored. Those without would have to prove themselves in the Arena before buying the hearts and wallets of those in the Capitol.

But first: _today._

"Chop chop, everyone to their seats. We have a busy day." Eroica clapped her hands quickly, rousing the attention of everyone around her, locked in a repetitive loop of gorging on the buffet and gossiping about nothing.

Nothing that interested Eroica anyway. And if it didn't interest her, it wasn't worth the air she breathed.

"We have tributes to score."

At least if she got this over with quickly, the night would still be fresh. Ripe for the taking. Eroica enjoyed her frivolous lifestyle, starting from the very bottom and growing to the top had taken it's time. Precious time. But everything was worth it.

Nothing would ruin what she'd created. These tributes would impress her, give her something to work with, or she'd force it out of them.

Boring would not do.

Boring would get her killed.

_I'm not dying today, or tomorrow, or for a long, long time. _She'd kill as many tributes as it took to save her own hide – twenty-three this year, next year, the year after and every year to follow.

The difficulty of her job this time round, however, relied on what was about to happen. What they could all do. What they each had inside of them.

She expected perfection, and perfection she would receive.

It was that, or else.

A part of her wanted them to fail, to push her to the alternative. She'd always enjoyed the else. That's when the real fun began.

* * *

The moment Lysander stepped into the training hall, he politely requested for a sword. It was simple, he knew that, but simplicity didn't equate to being boring. Not if he could help it. A good score meant a bundle of sponsors, and sponsors meant life.

There was no part of his plan that required him to hide anything. For the first time, he could show what he truly had. His full potential.

Every dummy that sprouted up from panels in the ground were torn apart as quickly as Lysander's feet could carry him in their direction. If the cotton were real blood, the floor would be drenched in it. Instead, tufts of red spiraled and landed on the ground, coating it in the innards of fake enemies.

"Thank you," Lysander smirked triumphantly and strode from the room, confident. Maybe even arrogant. For once, in his mind, that wasn't a weakness. Pride made sense – perfect sense.

* * *

Tallis was a bundle of nerves. But she couldn't let that faze her from what she _had _to do. If she did then she'd fail Lys. She's fail her allies... her friends. She'd fail herself. _And father. _

He wasn't here. She knew that. She wanted to accept that. But every step felt cold, every step like his sharp breath was right behind her.

"Good morning." Tallis smiled and requested for the only weapon she truly felt comfortable with. The Gamemakers had just witnessed Lysander use one, but they were willing to be open-minded about it, especially since Tallis was from One. She was supposed to be good.

Good, Tallis started to feel. Not great, but good. Was it enough, she had no idea. Good could mean anything – life or death. But it made her feel confident enough when she left the room, dummies dismembered in her wake.

Good. _But father would want great._

* * *

Dario had everyone's eye. The Capitol's heart. He walked in with a surprising spring to his step. A spring that wasn't fake.

He felt ready. Ready would get him through today, through tomorrow, and through the day after. And hopefully, through the Games. All the way to the end.

The weapon he requested was a longer sword, the blade curved as it flicked upwards and ended in the same sharpened edge all the other weapons did. He took it with a nod and headed for the dummies. There wasn't anything new here. Dummies were restocked between each session, and although it was boring, Dario didn't care.

He attacked everything that got in his way. Quickly. Aggressively. He channeled everything he'd ever felt growing up into today, because it meant a lot. Lysander would smile and say it was no big deal if he failed, but it would show in his eyes... the disappointment.

_I'm not going to be made out to be weak. _He ended his session with an unexpected shout. The last dummy's head turning and landing by Eroica's feet.

"Excellent."

_He's perfect. _She thought. He had everything she wanted in a tribute.

* * *

"Crossbow. If that's okay."

Leven tried to piece together the confidence expected of her. All through training she'd had Dario, and Dario like he had always been since meeting him, made her feel comfortable. Now under pressure, she knew it wouldn't last long.

If she failed, she'd be deemed weak. Leven knew she couldn't let that happen, weak was bad by any standard. But for a Career? That wouldn't only hurt her chances, but her entire alliance's. And she cared about them. Each of them.

"Thank you." She took the crossbow in hand, loaded an arrow and leveled it with the target. First, she did it close, only a few feet away. The bolt hit the centre, exactly.

_Yes. _A spark of confidence appeared inside her, growing as she took another step back. Another bolt. Another perfect hit.

All the way to the opposite end of the hall, where the target was hard to see, the rings non-existent, Leven came to a halt. Without aiming, without thinking, without even breathing, she poured everything she could into this last attempt to impress them.

_Come on. Please._

When she went to check on the arrow, it was embedded deep in the centre. All the other bolts had fallen out just before the one before had been shot – technology, whatever, she didn't care.

Today she'd proven herself. A part of her still felt like it wasn't enough, but she'd always feel that way. It was a part of who she was.

But so was this. Who she was becoming. The right sort of Career.

* * *

If he had the choice, Soren would rather have been stood anywhere but where he was. In front of the Gamemakers. To top it all off, they were raised in a cutting in the wall, looking _down _at him.

_Always down, _he thought sadly. He didn't want to think like that. Not any longer. With Ash, something, he wasn't sure what, but something was starting to fit. Starting to work.

He wanted to do his ally, his _friend, _proud here. He didn't want to burden him with dead weight.

"I will be demonstrating what I can do with a knife."

Someone behind Eroica snorted. It warranted the worst sort of reaction in Soren. Initially anyway, a silent tear that trickled down his cheek was followed by nothing else.

_Let him laugh. _Soren nodded, felt his fingers clench then relax. Slowly, he walked over to the knives, gripped the one that fit his palm the best, and went to work on a dummy tethered to a stand. It's inability to move like some of the others would automatically lose him points, Soren knew that, but it was better than sitting down and doing nothing.

It went well. Well enough anyway for someone of his stature and skill level. A few times the knife slipped through his fingers, clattering to the ground and echoing through the room, rattling his skull with its harsh sound.

But it was enough for today.

Soren left with his head high. It wouldn't last long. But right now, he didn't want to think like that. Not for as long as he could help it.

* * *

Meva skipped on into the room with as much vigor as she'd tried to push into her alliance with Clarence. She figured, looking up at their bored faces, that the better the show, the better it would be for her and her new found friend.

As quickly as she could, she went over to the very knives she'd been practicing with yesterday when they'd rejected that girl. Meva still felt guilt over that. Everyone deserved a little bit of peace and comfort before their death. But she wasn't her responsibility, so she shook that thought from her head and began to throw what she could at the targets.

It was nowhere near good enough to rival the Careers, but it was still _good. _Each knife hit something. The outer-board, a blue ring, a red inner ring. Sometimes her aim was off, sometimes it went better than she thought she had inside her.

As long as she felt confident in something, she had potential to go far. That's what mattered to Meva. Potential. As long as she had that, anything was possible.

* * *

Sheen didn't want to risk ruining the reputation his alliance had set up, but he didn't want to lose himself at the same time.

So he did just that. He took the risk, sitting down away from the weapons, pulling out the same book he'd shown Raegan yesterday. He hoped, walking back to the centre, that the Gamemakers would understand it better than she had. Actually see the truth he held in his hands, the strength the pages possessed. The knowledge it gave him.

Without relaying everything the text said, he started to go on about what he knew without having to look back at the page. Except to point with his finger, he was doing it by heart, remembering key facts and points and giving out the information about ways to heal what. Ways to kill. Make death quick. Make death painful.

It would have made him flinch, but flinching here would sign him off almost immediately. That would _not _happen. Not in front of them – the real judges of where he was. Who could kill him instantly. Or who could let him live.

"Thank you. That was very interesting, Sheen."

He smiled up at the Head Gamemaker. At least she didn't sound false.

_Did it work? _He'd have to wait until tonight. A score meant a lot here. Something so trivial with such heavy rewards.

_I did good. _Sheen let himself believe that. The alternative wasn't an option.

* * *

_Men._

Eroica rolled her eyes the moment Gemini walked in, flipped some of her hair over a shoulder, and strutted in like she was something... something special. _She __isn__'t. _But the men certainly seemed to think so. Grinning on the edge of their seats.

Unlike Eroica, though, Gemini believed as best she could that she was that special something. If she didn't hold that belief, then she'd crumble. She'd fall apart when things were only beginning to get serious.

All her life she'd grown up taking things like a joke. Believing nothing mattered except living life properly. To its fullest.

But now she saw what could happen to her, and she did not want to die unprepared. She'd trained with a spear, so that was the very weapon she walked over to, adding a little swish to her step. Anything to gain their attention.

Using her body didn't deter Gemini – she was used to it. Used to reaping the rewards her... assets... gave her.

At first, Gemini went for close combat. Stabbing dummies. Cutting off arms, heads, legs. The usual. Then to try and prove she had more up her sleeve, she started to throw the spears. It wasn't exactly uncommon, but a mixture of both close and long range should give her points in their eyes.

It wasn't perfect. Some spears shuddered mid-flight and soared at a weird angle, others missed, but the majority hit their target.

Gemini left with the same swish, the same smile, the same energy. It would never be as good as some others, but she had the right attitude. And that was just as important. If not more.

* * *

Assisi was nothing special to the Gamemakers. He sat in the middle of the room, playing with berries and squishing them between their fingers. Some scowled miserably from their chairs. Overs peered over the ledge and jeered at him, shouting for something. One even threw something at him, but Eroica had him removed from the room.

With force.

She, on the other hand, saw something. His nature mightn't be done with rebellious intentions, but to some, it would be perceived that way. To her she saw defiance. A spark of something naturally related to rebellion, without being anywhere near as dangerous.

"Is that all you plan on doing?" Eroica sat with one leg over the other, betraying nothing of what teemed inside her head.

Assisi looked up, grinned, and pointed back at the berries. "Weapons aren't the only thing that can kill. And all that nonsense." He went back to rolling some between his palms, squeezing the juice from them, and flinging others over his shoulder in random directions.

It was a show of nothing. Nothing at all. But a spectacle in its own right.

"He's doing nothing. He's making a mockery of the system!"

_No he isn't. _Eroica saw something special in Assisi.

Come the Arena, she looked forward to seeing if she was indeed right about him. Hopefully. If so, they'd be in for a real treat.

* * *

Raegan stared at the Gamemakers with as much pride in herself as she could muster for the occasion. Lysander had pulled her aside earlier, before leaving for his own session. If she failed, he wouldn't be mad, but it would make things harder.

Raegan made it her goal right now to show the same traits she knew he and the others valued. What had gone through her on the first day of training went through it again, only at a faster rate, repeating itself over and over and over.

_Confidence. Strength. Talent._

"You may begin."

She eyed up the weapon that would get her through this. Raegan wasn't entirely sure she had a name to put to it, but it was efficient enough, easy to use, and fast.

The hook sliced through the fabric like butter. Cotton spewed out and fell past the steel and to the floor, right by her boots. Raegan took another deep breath to relax herself. The heat was getting to her, the pressure, the stress.

The Careers were not a group to mess around with. This year seemed strangely relaxed, but that didn't matter. They had still trained to kill. Trained to eradicate weakness. She would not be that weakness – not for herself, or her parents.

"Thank you for your time."

Raegan didn't realize she was panting until a buzzer rang out. The hook clattered to the ground, shuddered once, and fell still. Only after she'd left the room did she regret doing that.

_That was rude, not putting it back. _She didn't want to offend the Gamemakers. Had she ruined her shot? Had she...?

_No. _She hadn't. She would never let herself think that. To admit weakness was to truly become weak.

_And I'm not weak._

* * *

Charles gave Eroica a salute, smiling as he jogged into the room. He spaced both feet apart, nodded his head and requested a war-hammer.

It was a large thing. Bulky. But Charles, without wanting to boast too much, was strong enough to wield it. When the handle slipped through his fingers and up it went, over his shoulder, a certain pride washed through him.

So what if it came across as arrogant? Right now, he felt strong. Capable. Maybe even a future... Victor. _ That'd be nice._

With two hands he brought the war-hammer up in one sweep, then back down, pulverizing two dummies at once. Wood and rope snapped with the force, Charles jumping back to avoid potential injury.

"Oops." He laughed, scratched his head and shrugged. "Guess I should have gone for the moving ones. Come on guys, let's party."

He ran towards them – or jogged, sprinting with the weapon in his hands wasn't quite as easy as he'd like to believe – and went on the offensive. It was hard work. But thrilling. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and pushed him on faster and faster.

By the time he was done, even Eroica was happy to smile. It wasn't very efficient or tidy. The sluggish way the weapon went would get him killed – but he was at least _trying. _That's all she wanted.

Charles dropped the hammer, saluted again, and left the room fist-pumping the air.

He felt like a clown, but who cared? He'd done it! He was on the right track. Sailing through to victory.

* * *

Celeste smiled. As she always did.

Eroica replied with nothing but a short, simple nod. Her face showing nothing and hiding everything.

"Proceed Miss Damount."

Truthfully, Celeste hadn't quite gotten over yesterday. It still stung everytime she thought about it. Meva and Clarence had sat together and chatted like friends. Everyone else except the other two going it alone had had each other to cling to with the fear of what was coming.

She'd had no one.

With each step over to the rack of knives, Celeste's heart thumped against her ribs. Her lungs burning. Her breath growing sharper and sharper.

_I can't do this._

She took the knife in a shaky hand and went to throw it. The second it began to leave her fingers the handle slipped from the nervous sweat building up from her palm. The aim was off completely.

She felt like crying the moment it hit the floor, scratched the paneling and hit the wall with a final clang. If she did, like yesterday when it was so hard, what would be the point of carrying on?

It'd be like giving up, and giving up wasn't something she was ready to do.

Instead, if she couldn't show them strength in weaponry, she could show them strength through her resilience. Whatever happened, she'd pick herself up, brush herself down, and move onwards. Always forwards. Never back.

The next knife missed. The one after that. Only after the tenth did one finally make its mark. The outer ring was nothing special but at least she'd hit it.

Not enough for hope. But enough for something.

What that something was, she didn't know. A good score was out of the question, but maybe she'd get to keep her dignity.

That's all she had left, really.

All she could really hope of keeping intact. What was inside her.

* * *

The weapons were Alfie's future, but not his present. Instead of heading in their direction, Alfie made his way towards the climbing station, various nets and poles and beams of random heights and structure awaiting him.

"I thought I'd show you how fast I am."

It was true, his best skill in someways. If they couldn't catch him, then they couldn't kill him. That's what he told himself to remain together. The fear was predominant most days, but as he put each foot against the wall and began to climb, a certain peace pushed that away.

It was enough, today. He made his way to the top, looked out and smiled at them. He even dared to wave, laughing to himself.

The next part was scary. But he did it, launching himself through the air, he caught one of the furthest rungs and propelled himself forwards, then shimmied back down the pole and landed on the mat.

"Ta-da!" His knees felt a bit shaky, but apart from that, everything had gone to plan.

"Thank you Alfie."

He'd done something hopefully they hadn't seen so far. If they had, then he'd be nothing special. But that didn't matter – in fact, that was pretty much why he'd climbed instead of fought. The fact it made him a nobody.

* * *

Unlike Alfie, Etolie went straight for the weapons.

Axes and hatchets were to be expected from where she came from, but that didn't stop her from taking the largest from the rack and heading straight for some dummies, positioned in a ring formation.

Etolie tried to act as calm and rational as possible. One deep breath and she was gone, forwards for the first one that had been programmed to attack her as well.

It parried her first attack but was quickly sliced in half with a cut across the midsection. At least for now, that didn't faze her.

It was a dummy. No brain. No feelings. No pain. It'd be a different story when it was another living, breathing human she was cutting open, but for now she focused on the present rather than the nightmarish future awaiting her.

The next few dummies fell like dominos, one after the other. It wasn't amazing, but Etolie had proven she was competent to hold her own. It was a strength in itself.

Without smiling like some of the others, or even a sense of saying goodbye, she stormed out the room with a neutral face, accepting the fact she'd done okay. It was average. Average was good.

It meant she wasn't bad, but wasn't a Career. She was just an ordinary girl, trapped in a shitty world.

* * *

Cort was one of the first to actually attempt a show of something different.

Instead of the weaponry, or the climbing frame that Alfie had attempted, he walked in the direction of the station he'd met Etolie. Well, when he proposed the alliance. They'd met before that.

When she'd snapped at him.

That was what he liked about her anyway: her no-fuss attitude. It kept them together. It built up a barrier between the two without either having to even say the word. They knew their boundaries, but they also knew the way they could and would work together.

Etolie supplied the muscle, whist Cort supplied the very skills he was showing to Eroica and her fellow workers.

It was a record time, for himself anyway. The berries were sorted into piles of poisonous and non poisonous. Then to wrap things up, he made a few sturdy examples of shelter, knotted some rope together, and threw one knife. Just one.

It hit a dummy in the leg and that was it. Everything he could cram into his session, he'd done it. Cort had hoped for the best and that was pretty much what had happened. His best wasn't superb, but his best was still better than some of the others.

He had a chance.

It made things a little easier. Knowing he _could _make it home. As long as he could fight, he could win.

The thought was enough for him.

* * *

"Stab this one," Chiffon called out in a sing-song voice. Her knife entered one dummy's stomach, then she took a small leap to the left. "Stab this one." She repeated it over and over. Chiffon would stab a dummy, call it out in a voice that grated on every one of Eroica's nerves, and then complete the circle again.

It was made even worse by the fact each dummy was stationary. And she wasn't even trying to impress them. Anyone could move their hand forwards and stab a dummy. It took power to obliterate them, speed to go through the dummies quicker than others.

Chiffon didn't care.

She'd told herself going in here that whatever she knew, it would never been good enough to really impress the Gamemakers. They'd have seen people better than her and people worse.

Instead of giving up entirely, she did this. Stab after stab.

It felt like she was shoving her middle finger up at their snide, snobby faces. Chiffon took that feeling and used it to smile, despite the glares thrown her way. She could have grown angry, she could have retaliated, but what was the point in making things harder for herself?

"Thank you very much," she curtsied, placed the knife back where it belonged, and skipped out the room.

Annoying, sure. They probably hated her. But she didn't want nor need their approval. The Capitol had done this to her, she wasn't about to graciously smile and bat her eyelashes for them.

But she wasn't about to throw her life down the drain either.

A score meant nothing, but what was to come did. That's when she vowed to do something.

_Win._

It'd be hard, but life always had been. This was just another challenge. Another trial to overcome.

* * *

His first step to true acceptance relied on this. If he didn't try his hardest to make the Careers come across in an even brighter light, Lysander would think he was holding back on purpose. If he went all out and beat him, he'd be killed before he could even jump that first hurdle towards fulfilling his goal.

The right balance was important.

Great score, but not too great.

The Head Gamemaker nodded at him to proceed. Evander wasted no time, jumping straight to it he buckled down and walked briskly towards the pole-arms. First, he chose a rather tall staff that loomed over his head, both ends blunt but heavy enough to do some damage.

Then, like pretty much everyone else, Evander moved in the direction of the dummies and began to beat the stuffing out of them – literally.

He didn't want to show any break from focus and composure, but he allowed himself a small smile. It felt good. Each brutal attack followed another, and for each dummy, it was one of the Careers.

Even Raegan. Her falsity made him sick. She'd joined for no other reason than to _actually _be one of them. He could tell. He could see that side in her.

Instead of letting the anger ruin his performance, he harnessed it into finishing up his show. When all the dummies allocated to the section he'd chosen to perform in were beaten to nothing, he left with a curt nod.

He knew he'd done good enough. Great. Possibly better than Lysander, but today he hoped not. Any other time he'd loved to have shown him up, but not in this. That would get him killed.

And that was something he couldn't afford to let happen. Not for a long, long time.

* * *

Tamarin felt compelled to prove herself wrong.

Inside, somewhere, being with her alliance made her feel inadequate. It made her feel like the kind of person she'd never, not once, hoped to be. So today started the change inside her. Instead of thinking about the potential downfall of her alliance, she would do everything she could to ensure that they stuck together.

Through strength. Friendship. She'd like to think they were friends, in someway. It was hard because they really weren't, when she thought about it honestly, but they _could _be. And could was enough right now.

"Tamarin Bray, District Nine."

She nodded politely, smiled, and moved for the weapon station. Eroica could tell those behind her were losing patience. There were only so many ways you could use a knife on a dummy, but Tamarin still went for it, with surprising speed coming from a girl from a District like Nine.

Then, changing it up, she moved progressively up the size scale. A longer knife. Then a short-sword. Then the largest sword. Then a spear.

Finally, the buzzer went off before she could move onto the bow clutched in her hand. She frowned for a brief moment, but inside she felt happy enough with it. There had been enough diversity to prove she had something to provide the Capitol with. Something that she could use to benefit her... friends.

_Friends._

A tough way to put Charlie and the other two, but it made it feel right. Natural.

Friends was the right way to put it, so she clung to that ideal. Anything was better than the truth, when she thought about it. The truth was painful. The truth was deadly.

* * *

"Howdy one and all."

Cayden tipped an imaginary hat in the direction of Eroica. She enjoyed his attitude almost instantly. Her eyes had been trained to identify contenders, and here was one.

Natural charisma could go a long way. It seemed he had it in heaps.

"Hope you like the show." He clapped his hands and went straight to it, running along to the maces.

Eroica leaned forwards at his choice of weapon. At least he hadn't gone for a knife. So many knives. Year after year.

It was boring unless they were being thrown. And even that lost its effect after a while.

A mace though was brutal, it could be messy, and messy sometimes impressed the crowd. It kept them entertained. Satiated their blood-lust.

With a grimace, Cayden dove into it. Bits and pieces of dummies tore apart with each blow, and as much as it irritated him to be acting like a performing monkey for the very people he despised, he kept going. On and on.

His arms started to ache. Muscles tensed, pain rocketed through his bones, but he kept on. Over and over until nothing was left.

"Aaaand, that's all folks." He saluted – like Charles, Eroica noted – and ran out the room as quickly as he could. Almost too quickly. Almost. His impatience to leave had been witnessed, but neither Eroica nor Cayden cared.

He'd done his bit. Played his cards right. Fit the role.

Now it was up to Dilara to finish it off. She worried him, but whatever, the other two were all there in the head. Good and talented friends.

He was happy to have them, he hoped they felt the same.

* * *

Cayden had put himself together before walking in. Sayla on the other hand, had not.

Her eyes drifted from Gamemaker to Gamemaker. A weird, hostile scowl on her that didn't quite reflect whatever entrancing distance was locked in her eyes.

"Good morning."

"Afternoon," Eroica corrected. "It's afternoon now."

"Afternoon then."

Sayla started to move towards the weaponry station, a united groan going up the moment her hand reached for the first knife handle, but she thought better. Biting her bottom lip, instead she drifted over to the dummies without anything.

Eroica, like she had with Cayden, admired the initiative to do something new. She couldn't possibly have known no one had done this, but still, it was appreciated.

Sayla was by no means a tough girl. What little meat she had on her bones left her panting with every fist thrown at the dummies. Some struck back after she went for those that were mobile enough to attack her. But they were weak attacks, designed to only force the tributes to defend themselves.

After one more punch, a well-timed kick, Sayla let her arms clap against her sides and she turned back to face Eroica.

"Done."

Her face was glistening with sweat. Quite disgusting. But it showed she was willing to do everything she could. Push herself to the limit.

It was another trait she admired in the girl, even if she wasn't as talented as a lot of the others. She had a different kind of spirit.

"Thank you."

Sayla left feeling content enough. She'd gone in there hoping to not come across as violent, but come across as useful enough to warrant a decent score. The last thing she wanted was to hinder her allies and ruin their chances.

They were that team she had struggled to accept at first. But it worked. Together, they would make it far, and she'd be an integral part of what made it work so well.

For once, she actually felt confident. A tranquility she hadn't expected from being here. Being at peace felt relaxing.

It felt right.

* * *

Clarence could feel every eye on him. Every single movement he made was being judged, every emotion on his face, every breath he took.

He missed Meva.

That was a strange thought, or at least it would have been a few days ago. On that train ride, the closest he'd come to another tribute was Dilara, and her unwelcome approach made it easier. Easier to picture every tribute as nothing but enemies.

Then along came Meva. She didn't judge him for being quiet. Or for struggling to show how he felt on the outside. She saw what was on the inside, somehow. He valued their alliance, their... friendship.

So he'd get a good score. A great score, to support them in the Arena.

That's what friends did.

He pretended not to hear the overbearing groan that swept through the room the moment he clutched a knife in his hand. If they were bored, there was nothing he could do but make these next minutes worth their while.

Instead of throwing the knife, or stabbing a dummy immediately, he threw his hands to the side and then forwards, tackling one to the ground. With a bit of rope he snagged from another station a few seconds ago, he tied it up, dragged it over to the fake trees standing by the camouflage station, and hoisted it up.

He tried as best he could not to see... Meva's face. It wasn't Meva. It was a dummy. Dull, lifeless fabric. It wasn't his friend.

Slowly, he started to carve up the dummy. It felt wrong, acting like he was some sadistic freak giving the Gamemakers a teaser of what he could do. He'd never stoop to that level, but at least it caught their eye.

It was different enough for Eroica to feel a buzz in the air.

Once Clarence was done, he left the dummy swaying, both arms now gone and a leg dangling by a thread near its head. If it were a human, Clarence wouldn't have been able to cope.

But it wasn't. Not yet.

He held his head high and walked on out the room, happy. As happy as he could be for where he was.

His show had been good enough. Good for someone like him, anyway.

* * *

Dilara didn't want to act like their puppet. All she wanted, what she really felt like doing, was sitting there and staring.

If she were by herself, then maybe. But she had an alliance that relied on a good score. Each of them would have given it their all, so by default, she knew she had to do the same. It was that or become a disappointment.

In some situations that wouldn't have fazed her. This group though, these particular three especially, would never let her live it down. They'd say it was alright, but somehow they'd make her hate herself. Make her doubt her worth.

Like always, she swore she'd never let that happen. Not again.

Eroica was less impressed with what she could do with a crossbow. It had been a while since Leven's display, so the interest was still there, but it wasn't as strong.

Some arrows missed the mark. Some swerved through the air and hit different rings than intended. Each time she failed, Dilara felt herself getting angrier and angrier. Her face heating up. Her heart beating faster... faster...

Then, finally, a bolt hit the middle. The actual middle, and Dilara bit down hard to stop herself from cheering. That was definitely _not _the impression she wanted to create for herself in front of these people.

After a few less impressive shots, Dilara left the crossbow and walked out the room. Calmly, she made sure of it. No rush but no pause. It wouldn't do if they say her falter. Saw her break out in the grin that overcame her the second she left the room.

It was far from anything she'd wanted, but she hadn't expected the centre either. Maybe it balanced out. Hopefully.

She hadn't disappointed herself.

She refused to disappoint her alliance.

* * *

If Ash were any older, this act – or at least she assumed it was an act – wouldn't have worked. But because of his size. Because of those adorable freckles. It did work. And it worked perfectly.

The eldest amongst her co-workers audibly cooed his name, clapping her hands together. He was doing what Alfie had done, climbing like a little squirrel up the wall, and even venturing further into the rafters that held some of the structures below.

It was dangerous. Eroica was pretty sure it wasn't even allowed since there were no mats for him to fall on if he did in fact slip. But for some reason, maybe some sick fascination in what the little cutie could do, Eroica held her tongue from ordering him down.

Ash on the other hand felt a weird high. A buzz that filled him from head to toe. Maybe it was the height and the thrill of having everything below him for a change. Or maybe it just the fact the Gamemakers actually seemed to _like _him.

He hadn't expected that, especially since he wasn't demonstrating any skill with a weapon. The very items he thought they cherished like their own children.

"And that..." he let his legs fall and worked his way along with just the bare muscles on his arms. Small muscles, he noted. Weak too, the strain hurt as he made his way back down. But it was worth it in the end. "Is how you do it."

He clapped his hands and bowed, glowing in the aftermath of their applause. Eroica was impressed enough. Not because he had done anything particularly entertaining, but because he had spirit. It was a certain characteristic – a quality – that shone inside some individuals.

Ash was nothing special, but he had that going for him.

Maybe it would be enough to keep him alive, maybe not. Ash hoped, and even Eroica hoped, that it would. He wasn't ready to die. And she wasn't ready, just yet, to see him go either.

* * *

Riva was the last session, meaning the Gamemakers were shaking with anticipation. Not to see the girl from Twelve. On the contrary, most except for Eroica, ignored her completely. It was the time they could spend outside. Living their bountiful lives. Enjoying the time they had to live.

Riva couldn't help but feel anger watching them smile and jump up and down in their seats, checking their watches and the clock on the other end of the hall.

At least they got to leave and spend time with their family and friends. She was stuck here. Stuck forever maybe, unless she killed, won and became a monster.

Unlike some, however, Riva was more than willing to become that kind of girl. Not because she was a bad person. In fact, if anyone were to become a bad person, Riva would have expected herself to be the last person to do that.

No. It was just because she had to make it home. Everyone else did of course. But it would be her that made it.

The fire inside her seemed enough to drive her to a somewhat impressive degree of aggression. The machete in her hands made its mark, cutting out strip after strip and chunk after chunk from the last few dummies left to wilt from their hooks.

Just before the buzzer could go off, Riva threw her weapon aside and jumped at a dummy. With her legs, she did a funny little twist and made her way up it's neck. If it were a human, they'd either have a broken neck or be dying from suffocation.

That was all she could do, because then the buzzer did go off and she had to leave.

_I can do this, I can do these things when it comes down to it. _She thought about the dummies being her allies. Her... friends, maybe. And it hurt, it stung more than anything. But it also showed her what was waiting for her to an impossibly vivid detail. Somehow, she found herself accepting that. Accepting that she could do such things for the safety of herself.

If they wanted a fighter, they would get one.

She made a promise to herself. It was one thing Riva was most proud of, her ability to keep promises. This would be no exception.

* * *

**Er, yeah. Since it has only been a day, I'll leave the poll up and wait for a few more votes :D**

* * *

_**Any tributes that stood out here? If so, why?  
**_

* * *

**Yes, so stating the obvious first, I switched it to third person. That made a whole load more sense for this chapter and the way it was formatted. I couldn't go between twenty-four first person POVs... that would have been too difficult, and hard to read for that matter.**

**Anyway, that wasn't the most exciting chapter but it's a part of the Capitol that has to happen so eh, whatever. Up next is interviews, the bane of my existence, and then Launch which is easier. And then the Games.  
**

**Nearly there! Oh and training scores will be on the blog since they weren't given out in the chapter. Plus, I am aware the little sections got longer as the chapter went on... just the way it worked out XD  
**

**See ya next time.**


	14. Spotlight

**Chapter Fourteen.**

* * *

**Interviews, Part One.**

* * *

**Shine Lenette, 28 years old;  
District One Victor.**

* * *

I kick my feet up and rest them on the chair in front. Whoever occupies the seat turns to stare at me, narrowing their lilac colored, freak eyelash framed eyes.

"Excuse me."

I cough and lean forwards, smiling. "I'm a Victor. Deal with it."

And with that, I fall back into the comfort of my chair and watch Lysander, confidently stride onto the stage. He holds himself well, almost too well. He's always been a bit stiff in the shoulders for my taste. Too much going on inside that head of his that stops him from opening up properly.

Lies upon lies. It's all too fake.

"Lysander! The Capitol certainly loves you!"

"I suppose I just have to show them that they've put that love into the right person." He politely smiles at the entire crowd, nodding his head and reshuffling himself into the seat, hands crossed over one knee.

"Any juicy little details you could spare about your fellow tributes? Anything?"

Lysander thinks for a minute, pausing. The Capitol is literally on the edge of their seats, whilst I just munch away on a packet of weird flavored snacks. I'm only here because it's required of me. If not, I'd probably be out drinking somewhere... it's a shame alcohol isn't permitted tonight.

"Whatever you might think, Tallis does have a brain. It's just a bit hard to find."

People laugh. Too loudly. Tallis on the other hand is probably reeling with shock, but I know what Lysander's up to, he has her on a leash. And he wants to make sure she's his and his only.

Up next the very same girl swishes on the stage, faltering only when several cameras click and flash at the same time. The poor girl looks very much swallowed up by the armchair the moment she sits down, crossing one leg over the other and grinning for Caesar.

"Tallis! Care to say anything about what Lysander had to say?"

She bites her bottom lip. It happens only for a fraction of a second, but I pick up on it because I was waiting for her to show it. The fear. The sadness over being made out to be someone... stupid. _Well, surely she already knew that? She's never exactly come across as a genius._

"Oh that Lysander, he's always been great at making us all laugh. Don't worry, I can guarantee you this girl does have a brain, and it's one of the many things that will impress you come the Arena."

Almost as fake as Lysander. He's asserted her position as a pet, and she's starting to realize it. And she'll blindly follow him through everything thrown their way because if not, he'll kill her, and she's afraid to die.

All normal humans are.

"Anything you'd like to say, just to wrap up your interview?"

Again, the pause to think, but it's less effective with Tallis. The no brain comment has already taken its toll on her reputation.

"Looks can be deceiving. So can numbers. I didn't score the highest, but that doesn't mean I'll fail you all in the Arena. Place your faith in me and I promise you, I'll return it a thousand times over."

_No you won't Tallis. _Am I the only one who sees it?

I know her type. Maybe, years ago, I was her. But in the Arena I did what had to be done. She won't because she can't.

That's what will get her killed.

The fact she's too... human. Too kind.

And it's what will help Lysander win.

Because he isn't.

* * *

**Ellis Conroy, 23 years old;  
District Two Victor.**

* * *

Wherever Cornelia is, she should be ashamed.

I've dedicated every single waking moment on helping Dario become the Victor the Capitol sees him has. Molding him into not just a fighter, but a star on the outside, a character they can fall in love with. Cornelia has done squat to bring out Leven's inner fire.

Dario is my responsibility. But now, so is Leven. I can't pin my hopes on both of them returning, which makes it a thousand times harder. Neither should die, but neither can they both live.

_So what do I do?_

Before I can come up with anything, Dario replaces the girl from One, walking composed and ready in a black, sleek tuxedo. He smiles kindly at the audience and greets Caesar with a warm hand shake and a clap on the shoulder.

It's not over the top, but it's not too brushed under the carpet either. There's a good balance.

"Dario, Dario. What should I be asking you..."

"Can't help you there, that's your job." Dario jokes. The audience laps it up and Caesar, ever the character, throws it back and starts laughing along with them.

"Too true. Well," he takes a moment to calm down, leaning forward to level his eyes with my tribute. "What would you say is the one thing that gives you the edge over everyone? We want to know what drives you above the competition."

There are plenty of qualities about Dario that do just that. But there are plenty of drawbacks each one proposes as well to his chances. Some Careers are trained in both mind and body, some just body, others focus entirely on using what's inside their head. Dario has a good balance, but he also has restraint, and sometimes that's just as deadly as it is helpful.

I'm trying to kick it out of him.

"First, I'd say you only have to look at the scores and I think you'll see that my chances, my skills, are higher than most. And I think second is I'm not going in there thinking about the end result. I'm the kind of person that will take it day by day and adapt to fit whatever's thrown my way. It's good to be flexible."

But it's also good to have a plan. And I don't think he does. He sees victory, but he doesn't see how he's going to get to it. Because he doesn't want to think of what he'll have to do to get there.

Leven drags a sequined ballgown behind her. The dress covers a long stretch all the way to the end of the stage where she just arrived, until she sits down and hitches it up, folding it over her lap.

She looks as comfortable as someone like her can be. As long as she holds it, hopefully, they won't see the things that I'm again having to try and get rid of inside her.

"Leven my dear. First, I must say you look very beautiful."

She blushes modestly and smiles. "Thank you. You're rather dashing yourself."

The audience cheer the two of them on and Leven relaxes backwards, soaking it up. As long as she feels valued, maybe she won't draw in on herself and hold back. She won't feel like she's a nobody, when really, she's one of the biggest somebodies this year.

"A ten, Leven. You and Dario with the highest scores. District Two's chances are looking very positive this year, what do you have to say about it?"

The microphone clipped round her ear echoes Leven's voice back to the very end. It's nice to hear a sort of confidence there. The ten really gave her a well needed boost. She even beat their leader. Both my tributes and myself couldn't help but feel smug.

_Take that Shine._

"I don't want to come across as arrogant, but I have to agree. I think we have good chances, and I don't want to squander them by acting out of character and becoming too big for my... boots, as it were. I just want to do it like Dario and take it day by day. With no regrets."

A part of me sees a Victor in her, or Dario. Another part only sees future destruction. Their friendship is what will make them a force to be reckoned with, but will also give them a harder time come the Games.

I'm scared of what's to come.

Because I can't decide who to support. As long as they're together, it'll work just fine. But when they have to split, and if both survive, I have to focus on somebody.

Who that somebody is, I haven't got a clue.

* * *

**Dessa Emrick, 27 years old;  
District Three Victor.**

* * *

"You've got to have faith in them, Dessa."

Beetee looks more worse for wear than usual, slumped backwards, brow sweating and eyes bloodshot. I sigh and shake my head. "I put my faith in people I know can come back. Soren and Meva can't."

"You don't know that."

The stadium erupts into cheers the moment Soren walks on in. Pale. Terrified. Tiny.

"Sadly Beetee, I do."

I glance back at the stage and watch Soren literally sink into the folds of the armchair. I've always hated that chair. It's a tactic from the Capitol, and surprisingly it works. Stronger tributes stand out from it, confident tributes lean forwards, and people like Soren fall backwards to be as far away from the spotlight as possible.

Unfortunately, the spotlight has been following him for too long now. In someways he should be happy. I know all he's ever wanted is to be recognized, and he has that recognition. Country wide. But this isn't the sort of stage he wants, the sort of attention. Because it only leads to death.

"Soren my boy, how are you coping?"

Beads of sweat roll down his nose, amplified by the light shining on him and the wide screen hanging above our heads giving us a clearer view of what's happening. Soren shifts uncomfortably, gulps and straightens his back.

"I... I've been coping well. As well as I guess you could expect."

Caesar nods his head. I know he only wants to move on from Soren. Tributes who don't shine. Tributes that fail to impress and give Caesar the right nudge to make them stand out. All we can expect from people like Soren is an early death.

I see the truth. As sad as it is. And I've come to terms with it.

"How has your time in the Capitol been? What do you like that's different from District Three?"

Everything would be the correct answer. The smart answer. Those who know how to boost the Capitol's ego automatically gets points in the eyes of the rich and stupid. But Soren is struggling to even breath let alone put together the idea of the smartest thing to say.

Instead, he mumbles something along the line of food, and that's it. He closes himself off completely.

The rest of the interview goes by faster than usual, with the buzzer going off seconds – if not minutes – earlier than most. Meva however, as hopeless as she may be physically, at least carries herself well onto the stage.

She glides past Soren with a smile to rival the most confident tribute. Her hair's been curled and left to fall over her shoulders. A green, glowing gown sweeping past her feet and past the back of the chair.

She looks pretty. But there's only so much pretty can get you here. If you're from One, Two or Four, pretty goes a long way. If you're not, pretty only gets you a few more cheers. A few more claps.

Then you reach the same end everyone else gets.

"Meva! Good to see you."

"It's great to see you too Caesar, I've been excited for this."

No one normal would be excited. But intelligent tributes are, and Meva's tuned into that. The way she must play it – for a girl that exudes naivety, she's awfully put together well in that head of hers.

Maybe I was wrong.

I was wrong about Beetee after all.

"Made any alliances? Any rivals?" Caesar arches an eyebrow and winks at Meva. The idea of a rival is much more exciting. Only Meva isn't the sort to make intentional rivals, so even if she had, she wouldn't be aware of it.

"An alliance. With Clarence. Oh he's ever such a good friend Caesar. I could learn to shut up," she laughs, throwing some of her hair back over her shoulder, "but we get along like two peas in a pod. We balance each other out, and that's important in a friend. Someone you can relate with, but has differences to keep you interested."

I clap along with the rest of the audience. Because, this time, Meva's shown me a spark of something that I don't see much in tributes from Three.

Most are stoic, distant shells that sit in the chair and mumble facts about their chances. Depressing the atmosphere. Others like Soren want to be greater than they truly are and that ambition closes them up.

But Meva has shown me that she has the potential to do well. If she can play the crowd, then maybe she can play the game.

Guess there's not long left to see if she can do that.

Tomorrow it begins.

Soren will be dead. Meva could be too. But now, I'm managing a little bit of faith. Just enough to push me in the right direction. Enough to give me hope.

* * *

**Wyatt Lowsley, 36 years old;  
District Four Victor.**

* * *

Sheen has the potential to be the strongest out of the alliance. In the whole Games. As he whisks himself onto the stage, coattails swept behind, he smiles at the cameras and waves for them.

It's the growth through these past few days that has given him this confidence boost. That he can survive.

I don't want to see Gemini die, or really, anyone die.

Years of this has taken its toll. Humanity starts to piece itself back together after becoming a monster, but Sheen is my tribute. My sole focus. So he's the one I have to root for, and looking at him soak up the attention and deliver it back out there with surprising charisma, I think I made the right choice back on the train.

Sheen became mine.

Gemini became someone else's responsibility.

"Sheen, Sheen, Sheen. Excellent to see you here."

The formalities are quickly dealt with. Sheen shaking his hand, bidding him an equally enthusiastic welcoming, and then it's straight to business. Both hold themselves with smiles that are almost too... much. But the Capitol can't seem to get another of it. They love it when tributes act happy to be in their home. Act like this is an honor.

Sheen doesn't think like that. He's here for his own reasons, reasons I think will give him that extra edge over the others who are here for the pointless, trivial reasons of fame and fortune. Mine were something more complex.

And I think that's what got me here today.

"You have a lot of bright characters in your alliance this year, Sheen. It's hard to tell who will make it the furthest. Who will shine in the Games. What is it about you that makes you stand out over the people that got, say, higher scores than you?"

Sheen equaled the girl from One. The girl he says attaches herself to her District partner like an obedient puppy.

He wasn't happy with it. But, what he showed them would never be appreciated more than the skill to brutally dismember inanimate dummies. He just has to remember that and keep focused, even when there's doubt.

"It's funny how the interviews started off with that little joke about Tallis and her lack of a brain. Because, that happens to be what I was raised to perfect. I thought it would be good to be different in that respect and it's done be good. Being smart and skilled with weaponry gives me that little boost above the competition."

Confidence.

Some of the others make it sound so fake. His is genuine enough to hopefully collate some sponsorship money for his time in the Games. Lysander is no doubt equally as strong, but it's his arrogance that will let him down, whilst Sheen's ability to remain down to earth despite hardship is the greatest strength he could have.

When he walks off, I try my hardest to remain focused. But Gemini has never been the brightest character. Being around Sheen who's so full of conversational topics I can join in on, and then Gemini who's most riveting conversation happened to be about a mascara wand... you lose respect for her.

"My my, you certainly are gorgeous tonight."

At least she has something she's good at. Looking the part. Out of everyone Gemini is the true stunner, and she knows it, flaunting it around as she struts on stage to the other curtain, turning around and blowing a kiss to a particularly flashy looking man dressed up in the front row.

One cameraman awkwardly zooms in a little too close to her cleavage, the sight showing up twenty foot wider above our heads, and then it's back to the two on stage gossiping together.

It's always gossip with her.

"So you had a good life in Four?"

"The best!" Gemini cheers, clapping her hands together. "Party by day, party by night. I think whilst you're young, you shouldn't waste it. You never know when something will happen and that lifestyle is taken from you."

"Are you happy to be here then?"

Gemini nods her head eagerly, relishing the applause the Capitol throw for the enthusiastically air-headed girl, happily dishing out her compliments for their inflated egos. "The most glamorous place in all of Panem? Course, Caesar. All I have to do is win and then I'll be back here, showing you all how it's done!"

Like it's that easy.

Especially for a girl like her.

I roll my eyes and lean back in my chair, crossing my arms and watching her laugh like it's nothing important. Nothing serious.

For some I'd compliment them on a sound strategy. But with Gemini, the bad thing is it clearly isn't a strategy. This is who she is.

And that will get her killed.

Being herself.

The saddest lesson some tributes learn. Identity can kill. Changing who you are... that can save your life.

Unless you're Sheen. Being who he is is the very asset he has to use. The one sure way he'll be returning here, as Victor.

* * *

**And the results for favorite alliance are:**

**1st: The Careers – 5 votes  
2nd: Meva, Clarence + Etolie, Septimius – 4 votes  
3rd: Charles, Tamarin, Cayden, Dilara – 3 votes  
4th: Celeste Damount + Chiffon Vander – 1 vote  
5th: Soren, Ash + Alfie, Sayla, Riva + Assisi Umbria – 0 votes**

**The next poll is just about the Careers, with more members than usual, I'm curious how you think it's going to play out, so go ahead and vote :D I think I can probably tell who will win the poll, but still, I'm curious xD**

* * *

_**Favorite POV?**_

_**Standout tributes?**_

* * *

**First part to the interviews. Two more of these I decided, I think I'll get through them quicker when I don't have to write as many POVs in one go. Instead of six POVs per chapter, it's gone down to four. The original plan was just for two interview chapters, ah well!**

**Tomorrow I'll try to get another one out. I really need to get to the Games before Sunday since I'm not sure how long it will take until I get internet at university. Hopefully it'll be instant.**

**Yeah so thanks for reading! I loathe interviews, but hopefully they still turned out alright.**

**Let me know what you thought!**


	15. Sun and Stars

**Chapter Fifteen.**

* * *

**Interviews, Part Two.**

* * *

**Kinnard McClair, 36 years old;  
District Five Victor.**

* * *

Taryn claps courteously along with the Capitolites. I sit in my chair, arms crossed, face focused forwards. For me, this event isn't about anything else but helping the two from Five earn the sponsors that rightfully, they might deserve, but truthfully, they won't.

"Raegan has it. Assisi, it's up to him." I muse from my seat without turning to face Taryn. She mumbles something and continues clapping. The general merriment is absurd for something so... fake.

Everything here. Caesar's positivity and charm. The Careers. Tributes from Districts that are destined to have no chance. It's a television show and they're the characters. Entertainment means playing that role, and some are better at playing it than others.

I wasn't.

And yet I won. So maybe it isn't as important as we make it out to be.

Assisi walks on stage as unremarkable as they get. Dressed in a simple suit and tie, he crosses one leg over the other and smirks at Caesar.

"He's not what they want." I mutter. Taryn nods and stares, concerned as Assisi shrugs his shoulders at Caesar's first question.

"But surely you have some strategy?"

Assisi taps his nose, glowing as the Capitol grows more and more restless. The Hunger Games are just that to Assisi: a game.

He's not ready. He thinks he's too good for them.

Tributes who think that are dead the moment they're reaped.

His buzzer finally goes off after a couple more failed attempts at getting him to say anything. It was always a lost cause trying to make him absorb some sense of strategy. He does it on his terms, and despite how bad of a person he might be, those terms will get him killed and no one, not even him, deserves death.

But he will die. A fate I've had to accept.

"Raegan Kalis, ladies and gentlemen." Caesar applauds Taryn's tribute as she struts on stage, shimmering in a golden gown that's graceful without being too edgy. I hate over the top. I think this year, they've done it just right with Raegan. She always was a refined girl. I like that about her.

"A pleasure to have you here Raegan." _Anything would be a pleasure after Assisi._

Raegan giggles, extending a hand to which Caesar gladly accepts. "A pleasure to be here sir."

Somehow, despite the makeup caked on his face, his cheeks go an extraordinary shade of red. "Oh please, it's Caesar dear, just Caesar."

The crowd continue to cheer mindlessly. Whether they even take anything in, I have no clue. It's just an endless barrage of noise upon noise. Volume upon volume. It's without meaning. Only those clever enough to tune into the situation really seem to have any grasp on what's happening.

To those sitting around me, it's just a chance to potentially get on camera.

"So, I have to ask Raegan..." Taryn's tribute straightens in her seat, a brief twitch in her lips. She must know the question. The topic. We prepared her for it. "Kalis is a famous name, am I right? Kalis as in... the stylists?"

Raegan pauses for a moment. Taryn heard her crying after the Chariot rides. We never approached her on it, because Raegan's a stubborn girl, determined to never admit weakness. To me, tears are a sign of absolute strength. To people like Raegan, there'd be no point trying to help. This is a touchy subject, but it's gold in the Capitol's eyes, and they want to know.

Finally, she nods, smiling. "Both my parents were granted permission to move to this city. It was a very long winded process, but they're living their dreams, and I'm happy for them."

"Now if I'm correct in saying, you were unable to see them when you first arrived."

Raegan bites her lips, nodding. The confidence seems to be gone now. Everything she does is harder than it should be.

"Well, I want you to follow this light, go on," Caesar clicks his fingers and a spotlight shines across a few seats to the right of us. Raegan's eyes start to widen as the light moves along, and then, a few seconds later, it lands on a couple staring out at the front. A man and woman. Altered to fit the trends that have swept our city, but baring enough of her resemblance to be none other than...

"Mum. Dad." Raegan starts shaking in her seat. But that's about it. The light goes off before the two can say anything, and Raegan's interview is called to a close.

"At least she got one last look. Every daughter needs that."

"Every daughter needs their parents. They left her." I say, glaring out at the front. Raegan looks distraught as she moves away from the stage.

It would have been better if she hadn't been given the chance to have a brief flicker of hope. A chance to see the two people that left her.

It's not an act of comfort. It's damaging. It's disgusting.

But that's the Games.

They'll never be right, because they're all about the wrong. That's their nature.

* * *

**Morgan Logue, 35 years old;  
District Six Victor.**

* * *

"Would you concentrate."

Denley continues to stare at me."I am concentrating."

"Well, try harder. District Six is depending on us. _Both _of us."

I shake my head and look onto the stage. Caesar certainly is bright today. Dapper suit and tie. Flaming hair. Beautiful pearly white teeth set behind that perfect smile.

Everything about today is radiant. I've always preferred this part of the journey-mainly because the next part is where everything becomes ten times more difficult to handle. Where the horrors begin, and our part starts to fade away. We help with sponsors, sure, but it's up to the tributes at the end of the day.

There's only so much we as a team can do. Denley and I. Only he thinks it's just him, all these years, just him and me sitting round the table dozing off or thinking about something other than what we should be doing.

He's wrong.

All I think about every second I'm not talking to him is the tributes. Their families. Their lives. Their potential.

I just do it in a different way to him. I'm a listener, not a talker.

Before he can say anything further, Charlie walks before the audience, waving a hand and grinning cheerily at the cameras. They take it all in and applaud the dear boy, until he sits down and slowly it starts to fade away.

Not by much, but it's easier to hear them when there's not a constant round of cheers muting everything else.

"Go Charlie, you can do this." I pretend not to hear Denley whispering. He always get like this. The dedication is admirable, but it tears him apart every year when they don't come back. Here's hoping this year, finally, we can have someone else. It's been the two of us for some years now.

We deserve a survivor.

"Charles, I have a question for a big, strapping lad like yourself."

"Flirting will get you everywhere," Charles winks playfully, laughing. I join the audience as they giggle back because it's appreciated, in my mind anyway. Charlie trying to bring out the best in the situation when it's doing everything to hurt that mood. If only everyone could at least try like him. Until it becomes too late.

"My, my," Caesar wipes a tear from his eye and straightens his back, smiling. "I was going to ask, when you heard your name called back in Six, what were you particularly thinking? What was on your mind when you realized you were heading into the Games?"

Charlie pauses for a moment to think, and once landing on an answer, beams for the whole audience and leans forwards to meet Caesar's curious position. "To be honest, when I was reaped, I thought of only one face, Caesar...my own."

"I'm guessing that's important, to think of yourself." The audience continues to lap up Charlie and his humor- his charisma is something well needed after some interviews that have taken more of a serious tone.

"Now Charles, one final question, why do you think you deserve to go home more than anyone? What is it that's out there, waiting for you to win the Games?"

"That's easy Caesar. Do you know how important I am to my district? Everyone knows my name! Well, probably because it's my dad's name and he's the one who made it big...but still! Everyone knows my name!"

"And how do they know your name?" Caesar asks, grinning.

"My dad's some big boss man. Owner of Craft Hovercrafts. Yes, it's funny. And yes, it's cringey. But it works!"

Their interview ends on that note. Apart from the Careers, Charlie is the first to make the best impression on the audience. They cheer, fist pump, and throw fake roses in his direction- items that have only been issued for Lysander, the pair from Two, and the girl from Four.

It means he stands out.

"He can win," Denley's eyes are wide, a dopey smile on his face. I grip his hand and squeeze it, nodding.

"He can."

Because, sadly, my tribute can't.

Celeste walks onto the stage in an innocently pretty pink gown, white flats, and a tiara threaded through the front of her hair. Caesar takes her hand, gives it a delicate kiss, and escorts her to the chair.

There, she sits, hands crossed over one knee. Unfortunately, where Charlie leaned forward, picture perfect, Celeste starts to sink back.

I know the nerves. I understand them. She just has to push past them. If only she could.

"You look stunning Celeste. It's an honor."

Celeste only goes bright red and stumbles over her words. When the audience start to laugh, it only increases her embarrassment. At least she's trying to smile. It's her trademark, Denley called it. How you can tell her apart from everyone when everything else about her is so... boring.

She isn't boring.

Just normal. And normal is always a blessing in disguise.

"I bet a pretty girl like yourself has made some wonderful allies. Maybe Charlie?"

Celeste shakes her head and tries to appear composed, smiling still, but sinking only further. "No allies. I-I'm going in alone. I think it's for the best."

Denley guffaws, smirking. He's always like this as well. His tributes as his tributes. He supports them. For them to win, my tributes have to die, so he always treats them like nothing. I understand, but it's still awful. It's something the Capitol would want him to do.

"I bet you've got some hidden skills ready to wow us all with, good luck to you."

Her buzzer goes earlier. Like shier, less confident tributes, they want her out the way. Understandable. But unfair. Everyone deserves to be acknowledged.

"Guess we know who the sponsors will love."

Denley nudges me, his entire voice and face far too over-eager. Instead of disappointing him, I nod and give in. Just for tonight. "We do. Of course we do."

* * *

**Oren Cutler, 32 years old;  
District Seven Victor.**

* * *

_Stop fidgeting. _I glare at the side of Jina's head, hoping more than anything that she'll turn and face me. But instead of that, I see her lips curve higher into her cheeks, and with one jump upwards and a dramatic fall into the cushion, she freezes.

"Thank you," I mumble, folding my hands over one another.

Jina stares, transfixed on the stage as Caesar introduces little Alfie. I lean forwards in my chair and grin, ear to ear. Alfie is a wonderful tribute to mentor. He's not one of those that fights back. Or assumes they have some air of superiority to them just because they're in the limelight and we're at the back of the Capitol's minds.

Just because we're from Seven doesn't mean we're old news. I make sure everyday I do something exciting, just for the publicity.

"Isn't he adorable."

Jina turns to me and wrinkles her nose. "Are we back to that again?"

"It's not what you think you disgusting imbecile." _It really isn't. _Everyone assumes my eagerness to be friendly with the tributes is ill-intentioned. Just because me, some large guy, maybe with more muscle than the standard non-Career victor happens to have. Oh no, we can't be close with our tributes because it's too _weird. _It's not _right._

Screw that. I know his chances, every year my tributes aren't blessed with the right sort of strength. I understand that, so I make it right by being there for them. Being their friend. A best buddy of sorts.

To give them something.

And that's not allowed because of who I am. What I've done. So I tortured my ally to death... it was for sponsors. They call me a sicko. I'm not. I just did it to survive. And apparently people like me can't be good people. We have the worst kinds of motives.

That's all they'll ever see.

"Alfie Caulfield. What a lovely name that is!"

Alfie brightens up, dressed to perfection in a cute little leaf green suit, a weird hat tipped down. His cheeks are a charming shade of red, his larger than life ears set proudly in front of his brushed hair.

It's such a shame he doesn't have it in him.

But that doesn't change his heart. He's one of the best people I've had the pleasure to meet. If only he could win.

"The name Caesar is so regal. I love it!"

The two start talking about random topics, nothing really goes into too much depth because Alfie's far too chipper to get all philosophical over his chances. Instead, he mentions his family, his little shop, his friends, and everything that he has to look forward to when he wins.

"When I win, I'll be sure to make everyday count."

_When._

He says the word when because it's a show for the sponsors. If only it could be true. If only...

"Stop staring at him, creep."

"You stop staring."

Jina narrows her eyes. "I'm not staring, you are."

"I know you are but what am I."

She raises an eyebrow at me and leans forwards, sneering. "That doesn't even make sense."

I wave her away and return focus onto the stage. "Shush, I'm trying to watch."

She shuts up enough for me to hear Etolie's introduction. She looks far too angry for me. That's why I hope she doesn't last long. She made a fool of me on the train, even when I tried to be friendly. All she's done is take Alfie away whenever I try to advise him on anything, or get to know him.

I can't even protest because she locks her room and the two just sit there, talking. About me, probably. She hates me, so she wants Alfie to hate me too.

"Etolie. You come across as someone prepared to do whatever it takes to win. We like that here, don't we folks?!"

The crowd roars their approval. Of course they'd like Etolie. She's too up her own ass. Thinking she's so... so... mighty. So strong.

Well she isn't!

"I am, Caesar. Ready to fight, ready to kill, and ready to win. I'll do whatever it takes. Me and my ally will definitely be a strong force in the Arena-"

"Ally, hm?" Caesar leans forwards from his seat, something the crowd soon follows.

"Septimius from Eight. He's a quiet guy, but he's intelligent, that's something every alliance needs."

I hope this Septimius kills her. I've never been a brains over brawn kind of guy, but in this situation, it'll be good to see that trounce this bitch.

She smiles at Caesar and Jina starts laughing in her chair. She turns to me again at the same time I swivel to face her.

"So, thoughts?" Her voice is too cocky. Too much. It's a shame of all the tributes that could have come back, it turned out to be her. But she would, wouldn't she? The annoying ones always make it further. Like ten years ago. I preferred the boy over the girl, and he died in the bloodbath.

"Alfie is-"

"Cute. Adorable?"

_Shut up. _I nod and she starts laughing. "He is but it won't get him anywhere. I bet you everything Etolie will beat him. Maybe not win, but she'll place further. Girls like her do."

Usually, maybe. But somehow, someway, I won't let her win. Even though I can't do anything to damage her chances, I'll have to do everything to increase Alfie's.

Sponsors will flood in for a tribute that's likeable. A tribute like Alfie.

I won't let Jina win again.

She always does. But not this year.

* * *

**Kennedy Ames, 25 years old;  
District Eight Victor.**

* * *

This is my tenth year. Nine years of nothing – no survivor, nothing but bloodbaths and early deaths. This year could be different. _Could _be. But it won't, because my own victory seems to have used up the last of Eight's chances. The last hope we had, and it was... spent on me.

_Wasted? _No. Not wasted. Despite what I did, it wasn't wasted. I've grown up realizing that.

"Nervous about them?" My fellow mentor, and best friend, Lawson nudges me in the side and smiles down at me. It's weird him nearing his fifties and me only in my mid-twenties, but it works. It works well. He was there for me and that's the way it's always been now. The two of us, protecting Eight's tributes for as long as we can, and then moving on together.

Life is easier with him. This year, when they die, he'll help me. He always does.

"I always get nervous for the interviews, but this year, yes. Cort is too quiet, Chiffon too stubborn. The Capitol won't like it."

"Quiet can be good. And I think I remember a stubborn little girl, fifteen years old. Stubborn as can be, you might say."

I elbow him in the side and start laughing, remembering more than anything. True, I won and my interview was a complete disaster from start to finish. If I can do it, I guess anyone can.

Cort finally walks on stage, nodding at the girl from Seven as she sweeps past him. The two are allies. But she excels him in every department. She has the right mindset, the one I tried to deny in the Arena until it became impossible too.

It's the mind of a true tribute. The one who would kill her friends to win.

"So Septimius-"

"Cort," he raises a hand to halt Caesar before he can continue, "call me Cort."

The crowd laughs nervously as Caesar nods his head. "You call Chiffon stubborn, that guy with his blasted nickname."

"Let him. It's only a name."

"It's identity, Kennedy. Identity is important for those who watch."

I shrug and turn back to face Cort, glaring at Caesar. I understand the impulse to punch him squarely in the face, but it's not one I agree with now, knowing the repercussions. I've seen it too many times to advise it.

At least he has brains. He swallows the urge down and attempts a smile. "Yes, Etolie is my ally Caesar. We get along well enough, and we're both ready, as ready as you'll get for a pair from the outer districts. I think you'll be surprised tomorrow."

With that, Cort starts to rise with each question. Shuffling forwards, he's acting far too proud for his own good. Pride works here, though. People clap for him during the interview, and after, when he's replaced with Chiffon.

My own tribute is as pretty as someone like her can get. Poor Trilla complained endlessly about Chiffon's somewhat lack of manners. I had to remind her of my own time with her, the very first time, when Lawson had to get me to calm down and stop. Get me to think.

Hopefully, as much as Chiffon wants to be that kind of girl, she'll understand what it means if she really does become it. What it'll do for her chances.

"Going it alone then Chiffon, I'm sure a charming girl like you could have found someone?"

Chiffon laughs, shaking her head. "Charming? Oh man, that's funny. I guess I could be charming in the most... uncharming way. But keeping it to the question, maybe I could have found someone, I mean what with my _charm _countless offers came pouring in. But no, I'm a lone wolf you see. My journey to victory will be done without friends." Chiffon looks out to the audience, and that's when I see her eyes land on me, a spark of respect maybe... or something else, lighting her face. "After all, my mentor had to kill her friends to win. I'd rather not become that kind of person."

_Elijah._

_Atarah._

I shake my head. Two names I will always remember, but two names by now I've learnt not to let control me. And Chiffon will not make me regret. It's an emotion I haven't felt for years.

Caesar wraps up the interview with a kiss on the cheek, and Chiffon strides out, head held high.

"What a nice girl," Lawson mentions sarcastically, squeezing my shoulder. I shake him off and start to laugh, because laughter is something else that helped me. A sort of medicine for a mental breakdown no other pills could heal.

"She can say what she wants, it's her time in the Arena, not mine. I won with friends after all, for the first part. She'll have to try alone. Loneliness can kill just as much as friendship."

I may be that kind of person, but that's what we all become.

Chiffon has to learn that. Cort will too with his ally.

They both have it in them to win. It's just a question of what they're capable of doing. If they can become a killer, or brag about their capabilities, only to break when the moments presents itself. It's how you tell a victor from a destined bloodbath.

Action over words.

* * *

**And the results for which Career you think will make it the furthest. These were pretty much what I predicted xD: **

**1st: Lysander Davenport – 6 votes  
2nd: Leven Foxe – 4 votes  
3rd: Dario Marston – 3 votes  
4th: Tallis Altier + Sheen Howell + Raegan Kalis + Evander Eldegwy – 1 vote  
5th: Gemini Leole – 0 votes**

**The next poll is a little bit specific. I've found out who you think will be a bloodbath, who you think will win, now I'm curious who you think will come somewhere in the middle. 11Th, 12th, 13th, etc. Go vote on that :D**

* * *

_**Favorite POV?**_

_**Standout tributes?**_

* * *

**Second part! **

**Sadly, and it annoys me to say this, I won't have reached the Games by Sunday. That just ain't happening. I wish I could have done since I have no idea what my writing schedule will become, but hey, I will definitely have internet the second I get there. That's a plus!**

**Yeah so see you guys whenever I've settled into university. I'm terrified. But excited. So, I'll have to see how things go :D**


	16. Chance

**Chapter Sixteen.**

* * *

**Interviews, Part Three.**

* * *

**Corliss Isley, 19 years old;  
District Nine Victor.**

* * *

She says it's alright, that there's nothing to forgive, no past insults I need to worry over. Nothing. Zilch. And yet I can't leave it alone. Why is it impossible to look at her and not feel ashamed?

Love.

Love is what made a shitty situation shittier with that little spark of light amongst the blue. It's cliché to say you can't help who you fall in love with, but it's true. It's more than true. It's reality for me. My love happened to be Tamarin's sister, and no matter what her face says, I know the _truth _is far worse.

She hates me for stealing someone away from her. Her big sister, her anchor to a good life amongst the hell-hole she lives in. So I need to do what I can for her, here, and in the Arena. She needs to win.

"Bloody shit this is," Tarquin growls from my left. Still, after all the time we've spent together, his voice is like a knife scraping down the very edge of my spine. Chilling, that's the right word for the gravel to his tone.

I turn to him and smile as best I can. The interviews are an affair we could do without, but they're not going anywhere, so like the Hunger Games, we should do our utmost to just accept and move on. Even after all his years of being here, Tarquin cannot do such a thing. Moving on isn't a part of his character. He's a man rooted in his past.

Nelle, mainly. Ever since she was murdered in her home, Tarquin's become even more unstable. She was a fellow Victor that understood him, I'm one that copes with him. I can try, at least. Because trying is all we have – both tributes, and Victors.

"Now, here we have it ladies and gentlemen, from District Nine, Evander Eldegwy!" Caesar's the creator of the rapturous applause that kindles within the stadium. Tarquin grunts, leaning an inch forwards for his tribute. I'm polite about it and follow suit, showing my support. I dislike Evander, but I haven't worked out if it's because he volunteered, or if it's just because he's Tamarin's enemy, like all the others are.

It should be the first. Volunteers have always been classified as monsters, so a volunteer from Nine, that makes it so much worse.

"Evander, such composure. Would you say you were one to watch out for?"

Tarquin's tribute has always been a young man of minimal words. Like mentor like tribute, they're a perfect match. But this Evander seems confident without being a blank slab of nothing. He smiles at the audience without appearing overzealous, and peaceful without delusion.

"I think everyone is one to watch out for – I'm not stupid, I know they're all opponents, from District One to District Twelve. But yes, you don't get many outlier volunteers, and when you do, they're always a surprise in the Arena. Watch me, and you'll see."

There's a surprising glint to his eye that neither of us have seen. One that's both ready for the Arena, and excited about what's to come. We know he's a few screws loose in that head of his because of what we've managed to piece together from his past, but at least it's some sort of drive, a motivation to bring him back.

Everyone needs one, otherwise they're doomed to die.

"Why did you volunteer, to serve as one last question?"

Evander pauses for a split second, before opening his mouth, conveying the exact same restraint he's tried to build up around himself. Amongst his anger, he's developed a sound strategy. At least he is smart. That's not to be disputed.

"My sister could not make it home, I'm here to honor her memory and do what must be done. For her, my mother, my father, and myself."

With that, Evander leaves and Tamarin waltzes on, bringing with her a stunning glittered gown of silver and gold. She shakes hands with Caesar and collapses backwards, crossing one hand over the other and beaming for the crowd and cameras.

Again, unquenchable guilt bubbles within my stomach, drowning out the pride I feel at watching her wow the crowd with something so simple as an arrival. I ruined her life, in someways. She's not as secure as she tries to be, and I took her rock.

That's why she needs to win.

Otherwise, I'll blame myself. I always do.

"Tamarin, so beautiful. I must say, you're someone I've been keeping an eye on ever since you got here."

She giggles – a joyous sound – and nods her head. "I do my best to impress, so I'm glad that's come across. You only get this shot once and I'm here to make the best of it."

Caesar and the crowd applaud her on her confidence. Tarquin as usual has fallen back into a silent sack of apathy. Whereas I hook myself onto her every word, silently cheering her on.

"Alliance wise, have you got a group you care to tell us about?"

"Well," Tamarin pauses for the right dramatic effect, and immediately starts to spill the beans on a group I know will help her. "Charlie, Cayden and Dilara are wonderful allies to have – wonderful friends even. We get along splendidly, and I really think come the Arena, we're going to show everyone a thing or two about the _right _way to play the Game."

It finishes at that, a strong, smart sentence to end on. The crowd go nuts for her, and District Nine is over.

"They've definitely made an impression," I nudge Tarquin, too content to really care for the noise that leaves his lips. We're one step closer to bringing someone home. Tamarin home.

If she dies, another piece of me will fall with her. Guilt over taking her sister, guilt over taking her life. I can't have both.

I'll die with both.

I fought so hard to live, I refuse to die yet. So she'll win, and we'll both live. We'll both get to move on.

* * *

**Heidy Callison, 38 years old;  
District Ten Victor.**

* * *

Conan tries. He tries harder than most people. Everyone has that breaking point where they'll snap, or a fracture, or something. But Conan has tried so hard. And it's never worked.

"You could try to smile." He laughs and pokes me playfully in the shoulder. The crowd are as uplifted as always – as loud, as incoherent and responsive as one would expect from an audience made up of what they've become. But me and Conan sit quietly muttering to each other, a one way conversation.

"Come on Heidy, Cayden actually has a chance."

_And Sayla doesn't? _It's the first question that comes to my head, and the first to leave. She has no chance of making it out alive – whether you want to sugarcoat the facts or lay them flat out on the table, anyone with a real understanding of the Games know a girl like Sayla will not make it out. It's a hard truth, but that's what Panem is. Honesty is important, despite the pain.

Cayden though has that chance, yet it doesn't matter, it still has no effect. I'll sit here, acting the part of a mentor, but not out of observable enthusiasm, but out of duty. I do care, probably more than I should.

But that care is limited to within. Outside care, that left me years ago when I gave up. Because Ten's chances mean squat.

They always die, and they always will.

Corpse upon corpse. Funeral upon funeral. Tears upon more tears.

Cayden makes his debut on stage with a certain touch that speaks of his balanced confidence. Dazzling smile, check. Gelled hair, check. Swagger, check. It's why Conan was drawn to him, and why the audience howls their admiration with flowers and flags galore.

I simply slump backwards, hands crossed over one knee, and stare intently at the stage. If I soak in every word he says, I can use it hopefully to fulfill a strategy he might provide for himself when Sayla dies. _When, _not if. Inevitable, not probable.

When she's dead, it's up to Cayden, and the least I can do is help Conan despite my apparent detachment from all things breathing.

"So, Mr Armani, you seem to have wormed your way into the crowds' heart."

It's not so much a question as it is anything, really. It's not important. But Caesar is a sculptor of words and the tricks up his sleeve, and Cayden takes it as his introduction, beaming for the audience caught hook line and sinker for his arrival.

"The crowd gets what the crowd deserves. That just so happens to be me. Future fighter, probable Victor." He winks and flags flap through the breeze.

"Confident, eh?"

"Confidence is important, wouldn't you say?"

Caesar nods his head eagerly and smiles. "Very, very important my friend. Without confidence, it's hard to imagine a future."

"I want to believe in a future that lasts more than a week tops. That's why I'm coming home folks."

They chat a lot. General banter. Nothing important, but it's plentiful gossip, and cameras snap away, columnists write, and other mentors soak in words for later interpretation to deliver to their own tributes.

It's a strategy we work with, sometimes; when it suits us predominately.

For Sayla, she should be grateful to fly off Cayden's coattails. The buzz in the air isn't for her, but it's still present, something that extends to applause for my own hopeless tribute. She sits in the chair, knees together, and waits patiently for Caesar to speak.

That's the thing with Sayla, she's a perceptive girl, but she waits. Waiting is a good game. But it'll also get her killed. She doesn't like _doing. _She doesn't like breaking whatever facade of calm that's surrounding her in a weird bubble.

Without that certain drive they have to have, she won't win. She'll die. They always die.

"Sayla my dear, pleasure to see you."

"It's an honor to be here, I must say."

It's such scripted nonsense, Conan wrinkles his nose and laughs. Even at our tender age, it's still as nonsensical as always. Word upon pointless word.

Finally, they get to the nitty gritty and Sayla divulges precious information about her alliance. Names to put to faces. Facts about how they hold themselves, their bond, their pretend hope of a chance.

"We're unconventional in a very conventional way. It works, like some alliances don't. It's a matter of us clicking."

"Clicking is important. What's the point in an ally you don't get along with?"

_Drama for you sadists?_

That's what it is. Allies that don't get along satisfy the bloodshed they all possess.

"Exactly. I think we're determined, and again, like having a special bond, that kind of drive is what will get us through this. We can't all make it, and I'd like to always say from here and in the future that it'll be me to survive, but I'm sure that one of my group can do this. Otherwise, I wouldn't have chosen them as my friends."

_Friends._

I hate the word.

It brings about memories.

It _hurts. _

Yet the word is used so casually in a situation where friends aren't possible. Not because we're all hostile, but because real friendships aren't made in a manner of days, they take time to nurture and grow. In a situation designed to tear apart the fragile bonds that people make, there is no such thing as friends.

Sayla thinks she knows these people, but she doesn't.

She knows herself, and herself is what will get her killed.

It's why Cayden will eventually die. Strong but loyal. The latter being a death sentence.

"We've failed," I mutter, numbly, sinking backwards. We always do. We always will.

* * *

**Eaton Nash, 40 years old;  
District Eleven Victor.**

* * *

"You say it'll be okay for them. You say they can do it. You say a lot of shit, you know that Seeder."

Rather than scowl, or snarl, or so much as turn a shade of red, Seeder does nothing more than smile at me. "I say a lot of things, but I do not say "_shit", _it's called optimism. Being human. Eaton, have a little faith in them and they'll return the kindness."

"Corpses aren't kind."

"No, but Victors can be."

She doesn't say anything back, instead opting out of conversation and turning to face the stage at an angle that tells me she doesn't want to speak to me any longer. I'm fine with that. Seeder can keep her head in the clouds, but me, I'm going to remain as ready for the inevitable as any smart person would be. They may be kids, and maybe I can be interpreted as a dick, but none of that changes the facts.

Children die in this world. Innocent children, evil children. Children called Clarence and children called Dilara.

They die, and I get to live.

"They'd do a lot better if they listened to me," I add in, quickly, because I can't just leave it. I can't not have the last word in a conversation Seeder will never admit defeat to because she's too proud of those 'morals' she stakes her life on.

"Smart people might choose to ignore you. They've made the right decision Eaton. I don't doubt what you did for me when it came to it – but you did all that once you saw me making it far, rather than what you could have done for those who died earlier than their actual time. Have a little faith and maybe I won't have to tolerate you any longer."

I stare at the back of her head, silent, for once. _Faith. _Absurd. I go to snort, or something with a similar effect, but the derisive noise is quickly swallowed up by the applause with Clarence's arrival on stage.

She can hate me under a false idea that she's some queen-happy-bitch; none of it bothers me. I won. I'm alive. I'm a Victor. Who cares about the rest? If some tributes choose to ignore what I have to say, then it's their own fault. They're digging their own tombs. Not my problem.

"Clarence, ladies and gentlemen."

My tribute does an awkward sort of wave in the direction of the audience. His face tries to act appreciative to the attention, but it doesn't quite manage to showcase that. Rather, it's a boy out of his depth, swallowed up by the sort of situation he'll never manage to adapt to.

"So Clarence, we heard from Meva about the two of you partnering up to tackle the Arena. What's your side of things; how do you respond to Meva?"

I told him he was an idiot. Plain and simple. No one would look at the girl from Three and see a worthy ally, a girl capable of anything more than falling at the first hurdle. She's smart enough to understand this part of the Games, but the gruesome, death-by-sword stage? She's screwed. And so is Clarence.

"I didn't have a lot of friends back in Eleven. I had my family, I had someone very close to me, someone I... love-" Ugh. Sob stories. "-so I didn't really get the time to socialize with others outside of my comfort zone. But Meva, she's shown me another side to myself and I'm grateful – I hope I can return what she's done for me in the Arena. Despite how hard it might be."

"He's dead," I grumble to myself. I hear Seeder emit an exasperated sigh, followed by silence on her part. So what if I should have that _faith_?He's dead. Returning kindness? To an enemy of all people?

Smart move Clarence, well done.

Dilara on the other hand at least doesn't corrupt her mind with such statements of bullshit. She has an alliance, an actual competent alliance, so for the time being my money's on her making it further than Clarence. She won't win, of course, Eleven only has me and Seeder in forty years of Hunger Games-ing, but at least she might bag a few sponsors if Seeder plays her part.

"Care to comment on anything that stands out to you here Dilara? Anything at all?"

Seeder's tribute is the literal opposite of her mentor. Whilst Dilara does seem to care, it's her attitude towards expressing this side to herself that completely contradicts her affinity for love. She's a girl with a sharp tongue, a no nonsense attitude, and whilst blunt honesty is great, her allies will kill her for it.

"I don't like the food."

"Oh," Caesar raises his eyebrow, smirking. Some of the Capitolites feign offense, but most just chuckle along with their host.

"And the wine tastes like pisswater."

Caesar starts to laugh. I don't doubt that Dilara came on here hoping to act her normal self and to engage in something other than laughter, so her twisted expression is expected. Funny, though. It earns widespread hilarity throughout the stadium.

"And your allies, my dear? Thoughts?"

She shrugs, twirling a piece of her hair. "They're good. I mean, I trust them, I guess. Trust is important. But at the end of the day it's every man – or woman – for his or herself, so that's the way I have to go about this."

At least, unlike Clarence, there's nothing about paying back some pretend act of kindness. She trusts without placing unbreakable loyalty.

"You've got a competent tribute this year, Seeder. Well done I guess."

Silence.

"Fine, be a child."

She turns her head, frowns, and strangely, weirdly, I see tears in her eyes.

"They're the children, Eaton. Children. And they're going to die. What's wrong with you?"

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. _Because they will die? Because I'm not some idiot who pretends they have a chance?_

"For once, just shut... shut the fuck up." She blinks the tears away, turns her back to me, and stares out to the stage.

Well.

Shit.

* * *

**Callan Ruscoe, 41 years old;  
District Twelve Victor.**

* * *

A lonely red chair.

I stare at it, to my right, unoccupied. Around me all the other Districts have at least two people, two Victors who can understand one another, together. Some relationships are withering away. But that doesn't matter – they still have _someone. _

I have no one.

Because Twelve never wins. I was the exception. Miracle Victor. A fluke of the system.

It's never the case of I don't try, or I don't care, or I don't at least prepare my tributes for what may, or will most likely, be their fate. They're as ready as they can be for people their age going into a life or death situation.

It's just Twelve. Where we're from gives the Capitol an automatic negative bias. We're doomed from the start because of the ash that clogs our streets, the coal dust that stains our fingers, and the depression that rattles our bones.

"We're now heading onto the last District ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome, Ash Rowe to the stage!"

Even the atmosphere starts to deflate. Twelve isn't appreciated. Twelve is left to rot and die, because they don't care, no one but those who come from our home have anything to say about the tributes that die and die and continue to die.

Ash will die. Riva, maybe she won't.

Or maybe she will. Probably. I can't be an optimist in this place; it's impossible.

"'Lo Caesar, cool tie."

Ash sits with his little legs swinging back and forth, his tiny frame bouncing with enthusiasm. It's captivating in the worst way. He's a strong kid, stronger than most his age, but it's still his age and size that give him that immediate status as nothing but an early death.

His enthusiasm can only last so long. His happiness left to succumb to the same death that will destroy his body.

"Aw, you're too kind." The audience take a moment to applaud, and then Caesar dives straight back into it. "So Ash my boy, being from Twelve-" Why is this always raised as an issue? Always a hindrance; never something to ignore. _Twelve is a curse. _"-you're the only District to have just the one Victor. Do you think you have what it takes to bring the number up?"

_He's not stupid, Caesar._ These questions make the tributes second guess themselves on the inside, but of course those without a death wish will never so easily give up and admit their defeat. Not for the cameras. Not for those with pockets overloaded with money. Not if they want to have a shot at doing the impossible.

"Callan's a great help, and it's sad seeing him and our District be ignored simply because we haven't had the best of luck. I think this year me, or Riva, can do it. You get that a lot probably, but it's true. I'm small but I'm not useless."

"Of course not Ash, if anything I'd say you have some of the greatest potential amongst this year's tributes."

Ash blushes, the audience cheer, but I sit here fuming. Lies. That's all it is. There's a hunger in Caesar's eyes – he loves what's to come just as much as anyone else, and it's made all the more thrilling because he gets to infect confident tributes with hope that will cloud their senses. If Ash thinks he has so much of a chance, he'll lose the will to try.

The fear of dying is a motivation in itself. It's what kept me alive, running from place to place, corpse to corpse. A tidal wave of decay. Ash cannot lose his vulnerability or it'll get him killed.

The two finish up soon enough, a little bit of talk about Soren, Ash's ally, and his opinion on the Games to come.

The final tribute of the night is Riva, gracing the stage in a knee length wheat-yellow dress strewn with small drops of silver. She waves for the crowd modestly and sits down on the chair, smiling for Caesar.

"Last, but definitely not least."

Riva giggles, perched on the very edge, appearing hooked to his every whim. I like this about Riva – it's what gives me an idea of actual, tangible hope in a future with her occupying the lonely red chair. She's optimistic with a sense of realism. Willing to do the wrong thing for the right reasons. Capable: a great mind and a body adapted to what might be thrown her way.

"We've heard little bits of info about your alliance. Now, Riva, what's your side of things, how do you view Alfie and Sayla?"

So many questions, yet underneath it all, they each ask the same thing. How far are you willing to go despite so called friendship? Are you a killer, or a victim?

"It's difficult now that I'm with them seeing an alternative where I'd be alone. I know that I have what it takes, we all like to believe in ourselves, but with a little bit of help, there's so much more open to you. So much more we can do together to make our times alive worthwhile for ourselves and you watching."

Make yourself out to be a source of entertainment. It's a good, clever way of going about this, even if it dehumanizes who you are. It strengthens the Capitol's belief this is just a show.

"And you think you can win?"

Riva doesn't hesitate. "Definitely."

"That's what I like to hear."

After a long evening, Riva stands up, curtsies for the cameras, and strides off stage. Caesar bids everyone goodbye, the crowd starts to break apart, and mentors go find their tributes. _Together. _

I stand up and stare once more, longingly at the chair always left empty. Maybe this year it'll be different. Young, steady, happy-go-lucky Ash, or faithful, calm, accepting Riva. Either will do. Just for a bit of company, I make no attempt to choose who should make it home.

I don't want them to die. I don't want anymore kids to die.

But for twenty-three deaths, I can accept it if someone can survive. Riva or Ash. Ash or Riva.

I can't do this for much longer.

The solitude. The burden.

The misery.

* * *

**Results for who you think will place somewhere midway through the Games:**

**1st: Gemini Leole + Raegan Kalis + Riva Buchanan – 4 votes  
2nd: Tallis Altier + Alfie Caulfield + Septimius Cort – 3 votes  
3rd: Lysander Davenport + Etolie Laville + Tamarin Bray + Clarence Higbee – 2 votes  
4th: Dario Marston + Leven Foxe + Meva Ralline + Sheen Howell + Charles Craft + Chiffon Vander + Evander Eldegwy + Sayla Reinhardt + Ash Rowe – 1 vote  
5th: Soren Ansel + Assisi Umbria + Celeste Damount + Cayden Armani + Dilara Donovan – 0 votes**

**I won't have a poll now, but after the Launch chapter, I'll probably have something to do with the bloodbath again. Not sure.**

* * *

_**Favorite POV?**_

_**Standout tributes?**_

* * *

**Hey, at least it hasn't been a month XD**

**Yes, hello everyone. I couldn't promise when the next update would be based on university, but yeah, it got in the way. Getting to know new people, getting used to my classes, and then having other things to do during my breaks, it all stopped me from writing. No quitting though, I promise :P**

**At least the interviews are now done. Up next is the Launch chapter, then the Games begin! Once I have the bloodbath up, I'll start to rotate between my two stories, so we'll see how updates work out then. I can't promise when the Launch will be here, but don't worry, it'll definitely appear sometime.**

**Thanks for sticking with me, see y'all next time!**


	17. Finality

**Chapter Seventeen.**

* * *

**Launch.**

* * *

It was the morning of.

All twenty four tributes, at roughly the same time, woke from a short sleep corrupted with the threat of today. Even the Careers, reared on confidence, failed to smile in the mirror as they got themselves ready.

No matter preparation, the strongest, most intelligent, most strategically well-rounded individuals saw what _could _happen, and for a moment before the façade began again, it took them back from being tributes to being teenagers. They were just kids after all. Volunteers, the reaped, it didn't matter behind closed doors.

Lysander stretched his arms out, yawning, and frowned. He contemplated a hundred different things, the gears creaking inside his head, every step of the future clouding his mind from proper concentration.

The other Careers were trying so hard to find the right balance between their training persona and themselves. Leven struggled to make it outside her door, shaking, quivering, with tears threatening to leak out the corners of her eyes.

She'd done well. Dario was proud of her, her mentor, her escort, they all told her she had a chance. But the hope inside her was nothing more than a confused jumble – a distant dream. She felt ridiculous, thinking she needed to prove something. Thinking that killing and maybe dying made sense.

It was this world that had inflicted this upon her. For some of the others, they felt the same resentment towards their home. Most ate breakfast in silence, others like Assisi tried their utmost to make the morning something other than a dreary, depressing affair of sulking into their crockery.

But the majority found the peace calming.

No matter what went through their heads, they still had an hour or so that they were still themselves. Sayla chuckled inside her head when Cayden cracked a joke – it was nice to hear him succeeding in remaining true to what made him himself. Sayla said nothing, but Cayden knew when he caught her peeking over her bowl, that the two cared for each other in a distant way.

Neither wanted the other to die, and maybe in a different place, they could have been friends. It made Cayden sad, and yet he carried on joking, because the alternative made everything so much harder for him to bear.

Eventually it was time for them to ride the elevator up to the roof. Clocks ticked away and escorts hurried their tributes into the glass box, a sort of prison encasing them inside, allowing them one last look of luxury and then down to business. Dario squeezed Leven's hand. The two smiled and Dario did the same thing he'd always done: he readied his mind, his stomach, his every will on what had to be done, but also concentrated on his _friend._

Leven would not lose what she had gained over this process. He would make sure of that.

Ash and Riva stood in awkward silence. The younger boy wanted so very much to wish Riva good luck and goodbye, but the finality was hard for him. It left his chest with a funny sort of feeling that was unwelcome. Riva couldn't say anything to her District partner for similar reasons – he had to die for her to win, and the idea of a fourteen losing the light in his eyes was too much to bear at that moment.

She steeled herself in what _had _to happen, but that didn't make it any easier. She pretended to ignore the tear creeping down her cheek. She pretended to be strong because it was easier than admitting the weakness.

"Now you have everything you need?" District Six's escort stared over her two tributes, hands clasped under her chin, beaming at them but fretting like a worried mother. Celeste was almost catatonic. Charlie stared at her, frowning, but chose to ignore the plight of his District partner and smirked at the frizzy haired lady in front of him.

"Packed lunch. Hair brushed. Don't worry mum, I'll be home before teatime."

Tamarin walked past at that exact moment and giggled, distracting Charlie from whatever she had to say in reply. He took one last look at poor Celeste and sidled up next to his ally, the two chatting without worry. Tamarin knew it was false the way she was presenting herself, but if Charlie and the others liked her, then that's what was important.

An alliance with cracks so visible to what was on the outside would only fall apart. She refused for that to happen. Apart from Dilara who was a bit of an outsider, she had a group that functioned perfectly. It didn't mean she didn't like Dilara, she only struggled to pin her down. Mysteries were difficult for Tamarin, her own way of thinking was one on its own. What awaited within Dilara, she was scared to find out.

District Three were split up into the two different hovercrafts. Soren displayed the same sorts of emotions Ash had tried so very hard to drill into his everyday behaviour. He smiled timidly, blinking back the fearful tears, and crossed his hands into his lap when sat down. On the other side of the roof, Meva found Clarence and greeted him warmly.

It was hard for him to reflect the exact same vigour, especially considering their destination, but he tried and it was appreciated from his ally. Meva knew she could be a bit too much, be a bit too hard on Clarence because she only wanted what was best for him. It was wrong to expect change, but it was wrong to let him die knowing life could have been so much better if opened up a little.

He meant an awful lot to her, and she to him. _I won't let her die, _Clarence thought. Meva wanted to cry. If he died, she didn't know what she'd do. It was getting to her. It was all becoming too much for an eighteen year old girl to handle. It just wasn't fair.

"Feeling alright?"

Sheen himself sat in the hovercraft as Meva and Clarence, pretending not to see the look of worry and fake joy written in their expressions. They were victims. His victims, maybe. So he had to see them that way, no matter what.

Raegan however stared at the descending Career who took a seat opposite her, worried. "I'm fine," she lied, biting her lip. Everything about Raegan's behaviour told Sheen the complete opposite, but he didn't prod and pry because he understood. He felt it too – the sense of dread about what was coming.

The hovercraft jolted once, and after a tracker was so painfully inserted into his arm, he stared out of the window. Raegan kept fidgeting, fretting over the future. She'd played her part well. She'd got herself into the strongest, most capable alliance. It was all working. So why, she asked herself, did it feel wrong?

Like she was betraying something inside of her. Like this person she was becoming made her something so much worse than a Career. They were brought up on this. She was a fake. She knew better, and yet she was still going to do this.

It made her want to cry.

On the other hovercraft, Tallis sat with Gemini. Both girls muttered to one another, ignoring the looks of the outer-district tributes, pretending not to feel their hatred radiating from each glance. Tallis herself felt a strange buzz in her stomach. Fear, predominately. But also acceptance. Twice two people she loved had failed at this, and maybe yeah, she would follow in their footsteps.

But that didn't change the fact there was a possibility, and as long as there was such a possibility, who said she shouldn't give it her all? The only problem was, she cared too much for some of her allies. And the others, she didn't want to see die.

Gemini looked at the beautiful girl, and then down at herself. They were truly the jewels of this entire Game. The girls everyone wanted to be. And yet, she felt an emptiness inside of her. The same sense of fear she could feel coming from every direction punctured deep down and hooked into her brain, infecting her with something she wasn't used to.

Tallis made her a better person, she made her feel something other than what she'd lived her life based on, but that didn't make it any better. At the end of the day, she cared more about living a good life than what actually made it good.

Good for her was not giving a shit. Good for a good person meant kindness, loyalty, trust, everything that would get a person killed where they were going. Tallis would die, Gemini knew that.

The girl was too good for this world. Lysander would tear her limb from limb.

When the hovercraft finally started to descend, the lights dimmed and Chiffon ignored the sweat chilling her palms. Her stomach flipped, but she forced herself to accept that it was just the motion of the hovercraft landing, nothing more. Maybe she had no ally, but that didn't mean she couldn't do this. Surely, being by yourself was a better thing? When tributes started to pile out, she heard muttered goodbyes, and saw the boy from Seven hugging the girl from Ten before being dragged away.

_I want that. _She found herself thinking and feeling the emotional consequences of her behaviour all in one go. And it was agony. She'd tried so hard to be someone strong on the outside, she hadn't tried to ready herself on the inside, and that was her biggest regret when a hand clamped itself onto her shoulder and drove her into darkness. An ally might have killed her, but it would have saved her as well.

Saved her from herself.

Feeling something completely different, Etolie scowled when her body pitched forwards and her hands slammed into the ground. She shook herself when she made it onto her feet and glared over her shoulder, only the door had been closed and the Peacekeeper vanished behind it.

"Oh my dear." In front of her, her stylist embraced her before she could get a word in. Etolie took it and continued to play along with the whole situation, murmuring a yes here and a no there. She was too distracted. Thinking about Cort. Thinking about everything that would go on up there.

The boy was oddly charming in a I-want-to-punch-you way. Cold without being bad. Distant whilst somehow making you want to be his friend. She enjoyed his company more than she cared to admit and that was the biggest problem.

Everyone knew the terms of the Games. The rule. One winner. Not two. One. And she had someone, other than herself, she liked. She actually cared about. _What do I do? _A pile of clothes was forced into her hand and she frowned, thinking and dreading the unknown. Whatever she did do, it would be bad, there was no escaping that. Everything up there would turn her into a monster. It was only a matter of when that terrified her.

Cort, on the opposite side of the complex, stared down with a wrinkled nose at the clothes he would be forced into. He'd never really cared about fashion, there were other more pressing issues in life to worry over. It was the practicality that unnerved him. The white sheet was some sort of toga-esque piece of cloth, that when he put over himself covered him from the neck and all the way to his knees. Luckily no patch of his torso was left uncovered, but his arms from the elbow were bare, and he knew if it was cold this blasted thing would do nothing to protect him.

The Careers, already prepped on how to interpret the outfits, were also as worried. Not only them, but pretty much everyone else. Alfie put his feet into the sandals and wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. A noise bubbled up from his throat and escaped his lips that startled not just his stylist, but himself as well.

_I want to stop, cry, and be a boy again. _It was a sob, the noise he'd just made, strangled by a sense of strength he had to adopt. But this only made it harder for him. A thin sheet over his body and sandals, that was it.

Charlie snorted. Cayden laughed. Gemini cringed. And then a voice rang out from the speakers, a robotic, monotonous drone. It was time.

Evander ignored the open arms of his stylist, veering around him and stepping into the tube. It was encouraging the way he felt. It wasn't fear or nerves or anything like that, it was acceptance of his fate. He knew he had it in him, but the end of it all wasn't what he focused on, it was the journey there and who he'd take down on his path.

They didn't all seem as bad as he thought they would, but it was all a charade put on to fool him and everyone into believing they weren't monsters. He had a goal, and his goal was so very clear to him, nothing else mattered.

Maybe, not even his own life.

Slowly, like a bomb ticking away the seconds to detonation, the ten second warning finished and up the tributes went. Dilara wiped away more tears that continued to slip out of her eyes and focused on the front, even though there was nothing to see. If she cried here, what would she do next? Fall over and blow up? Run onto a sword? Give up...?

_No. _If she was a girl who gave up, she'd have died long ago. She knew she wasn't perfect, knew that she should have tried harder to be a better person to everyone, not just a select few, but at least she had given it her all. She'd made something of a life that had had it in for her since the get-go.

_I'm ready. _She wiped the last tear, clenched her fists, and welcomed the bright light of the Arena.

It was time.

_Let The Hunger Games begin. _

* * *

**I've decided not to go for a poll this chapter, instead what I was going to ask, I'll just ask as questions.**

* * *

_**Who do you want to see die in the bloodbath?**_

_**Who do you think will die in the bloodbath?**_

* * *

**Well, yayy, we made it!**

**Sorry for the wait again, but uni, yup that's my excuse now because it's true and annoying. But still, although this chapter was formatted a little different than I originally intended, and it's much shorter, it's still something and up next we get to the Games part of this story!**

**Thanks for sticking with me, if any of you are still out there. Reviews are, as always, appreciated, so if you can spare a minute, it'll really help. I nearly quit the story once or twice these past two weeks, not because of reviews, but because I felt like I'd never get it done. But don't worry, it won't happen, I'm getting this finished even if it kills me ;D**

**Bring on the bloodbath!**


	18. Do or Die

**Chapter Eighteen.**

* * *

**Bloodbath.**

* * *

**Riva Buchanan, 18 years old;  
District Twelve Female.**

* * *

A city of gold and white, heaven amongst the red, towers to the left. To our right, cracks of fiery concrete, swathes of molten lava running in rivulets through the crumbling structure, stretch as far as the eye can see.

Bubbles of hot, thick fire rise one by one from pockets of lava lakes. And there, the city glistens like a bright halo, enticing each and every one of us to its hidden dangers. I know where Sayla and Alfie will want to go, which presents the first problem, waiting for the countdown to reach zero.

We're in a ring, centered round the Cornucopia, locked in position where the two sides meet each other. I'm standing above dewy, silvery grass, whereas Alfie and Sayla are separated above crumbling red rock. There are gnarled up trees behind their half of the section, and near me, bushes with roses and butterflies skimming the petals.

We need to go where the danger is evident. We need to run into hell. And that's the issue, because Alfie and Sayla will be blinded by the city and its beauty, because it's the easiest option. The best option.

I need to make them see the truth.

First, though, I focus on the Cornucopia itself, filled to the brim with the best supplies ranging from swords an unimaginable length, backpacks of the largest size, and even shelter that could last through the entire Game. I can feel myself panicking already, assessing everything. It's already halfway, thirty seconds to go, and there's so much more I need to consider.

I'm not ready for this, no matter what we say to ourselves and prepare our minds with. I've told myself time and time again to do whatever it takes to make it, but now, seeing everyone leaning forwards in a running position on their plates, ready to tackle this hell, it clouds my mind and hurts my heart.

I'm a kid.

And I need to kill.

I take one last look around the ring, spotting the trees we could hide behind, or the bushes where the butterflies linger, almost staring at us. It's a large expanse where the chaos will unfold for the first time. The cracks in the rock aren't as thick as the ones further one, marring the landscape behind mountains of the darkest colors I've ever seen. We have to head there. The antithesis to the way I've tried to live – lighting up a country that's always been horrible – but it's the only way forwards.

_3..._

_2..._

_1..._

The gong rings out; the Game begins.

I've never been the fastest runner, because there's never been anything I've had to run from. But with adrenaline filling me from my feet all the way to my head, I pump my arms and legs and sprint straight for the first backpack I can see. Nearing the pedestals, rather than venturing into the central fray just yet, I scoop it up and throw it over my back.

I know right now I haven't got time to open it and check its contents, rather than wasting anymore precious seconds, I start to search frantically for a weapon. _A weapon. _I spot a knife and for a brief moment, the breath goes from my lungs, a dull ache inside my head.

This is what I'm going to take a life with. It seemed easier before, thinking about doing it, rather than facing the truth of my actions.

But this is what I have to do, who I have to be. I can be the girl with hope and a darker edge at the same time, that's the role I have to take.

I grab the knife and keep it gripped tight in my hand. _Ready._

Before I can take another step, now prepared to find my allies, a lone figure darts out in front of me, trips and smashes his face into a red stone, jutting out from charred concrete. He cries out, looking up at me with blood dripping from his cracked nose.

I take a step back, swallowing down bile and ignore his pleas for help. I'm in one of those situations, the kind of inescapable nightmare where I can't look, but have to. Over my shoulder, pausing for a moment, Soren Ansel crawls along the ground, holding his nose, and crying openly for a savior.

No one comes, not the kind of angel he wants. Instead, Dario Marston, with a face devoid of emotion, raises a spear and stabs down. It's quick, hopefully it's painless, but it's done. The first death.

_Ash._

I look at Soren once more and swallow down a sob. He was Ash's ally. He was his friend.

I know I'm crying, I can taste the tears on my lips. Ignoring them, I hold the knife in a shaky hand and continue to run the first half of the area, searching for a familiar face.

Alfie pokes his head from behind a backpack, hunched up on the ground as if he's hiding. When he sees me, he cries out, then slams a hand across his mouth, eyes widening.

Thankfully, the Careers, the real enemies, aren't nearby and I reach him easily, pulling him up and wrapping an arm round his shoulders.

"I saw it," he says, shaking his head, paler than ever.

"Me too."

We both shiver, but put it past us, because we have to. Sayla is still out there and we need to find her. We can't lose anyone yet.

"_RIVA!"_

I know his voice. His goofy, playful voice. His loud voice. Only this time, it cracks with fear, and I turn on the spot to see Ash running in my direction, trying to escape the clutches of the boy from Nine.

"What do we do?" Alfie quickly shrieks, tugging on my elbow. A Career with a weapon is charging for my District partner, and my District partner is heading for us.

Ash almost chokes when he leaps over Soren's dead body, blood pooling around him. I close my eyes, knowing what has to be done, and hating myself for it almost instantly.

"I'm sorry."

We can't take a Career. If we stay, we're dead.

I grab Alfie and run to the right, staring once over my shoulder and watching the betrayal corrupt Ash's innocent face. Then Evander's own weapon leaves his hands, finds Ash's neck, and he falls in a heap. Dead.

We're too far away now for Evander to care about following us, instead he turns around and heads straight for the center. Right now, my legs start to give way, shaking under the agony filling my limbs with a heavy lead. Ash is dead. His smile, gone. The light in his eyes, dark forever.

I can't head there, looking at the red, the hell that's awaiting us. I can't live somewhere that goes against me, us, those who cherish good times.

"We're getting Sayla and hiding there," I point to the paradise city, ignoring my instincts. "I can't... he..." Alfie squeezes my hand. I squeeze back and smile, a thank you playing on my lips, but dying before I can say anything.

The boy from Eleven doesn't even look where he's going before knocking the two of us down. He shrieks, Alfie cries out, and I go down in silence, holding onto my knife. We're causing too much of a scene – anyone could see us, find us, and take us out.

Alfie scrambles for me, finding my hand, but Clarence is panicking, and I know all too well what that can do to someone in this state of mind.

"No. You can't."

"We're not-" I see his knife and scream, knocking Alfie down. It cuts above the air where my ally's head once was, and again, something clicks inside. The knowledge of knowing the inevitable.

Clarence is stuck in this state of panic, thinking we're his enemies, and there's nothing we can do.

My own knife finds his heart, sinking into flesh, blood trickling down the blade and my own fingers.

Alfie makes a strangled sort of gasp, but I keep my mouth closed, pulling the knife out and turning to my younger ally.

"I had to. He wasn't thinking straight. He could-"

Alfie nods, holding my hand again.

"Let's find Sayla."

Three deaths. And one of them I killed.

What does that make me?

I'm scared of the answer. Scared of the truth. What it makes me will break me. I have to focus on something else, otherwise, what I've just done will kill me too. I'm not ready to die.

I've seen death.

I can't die.

* * *

**Charles Craft, 18 years old;  
District Six Male.**

* * *

"At least we weren't given socks. Socks and sandals don't go."

I look at Cayden, and for the first time since meeting him, I don't know whether to laugh or punch him. Around us, bodies have already started to pile up, and he's cracking a joke. Usually this would be the very thing I'd find endearing and annoying at the same time. Laughing and thinking _I should have thought of that first _but forgetting about it because it makes me sound immature.

But now, no, this is a buckle down and get the fuck out kind of situation, not one to poke fun at. Even if these sandals are ridiculous.

"Grab that and shut up, we need to find the girls."

"Alrighty boss, whatever you say." He mocks salutes, grins, and throws the backpack over his shoulder. We're huddled behind one of the weird looking trees, mossy with fungus growing at the base – noxious colors, the vomit-like hints of green and yellow. Cayden wrinkles his nose at the smell and hoists himself up.

Ideally, we should get going now, forget about the girls. Be survivors not friends. But that's not me, and it's not Cayden either. Both of us have this inherent idea of a need for companionship. It's quite pathetic if you think about it, but that doesn't bother me. I need Tamarin and Dilara, like Cayden needs a laugh here and there. It completes us.

"I'll go find 'Lara then, huh?" Cayden asks in sync to our departure. I stare at him, considering the idea for a second. The idea of strategy is an obscure one and quite difficult to wrap my head around. But I'm the leader, so the leader acts like he knows what's best, so I shake my head.

"We don't split up, no matter what."

"Right." He looks a little deflated. I know the look. He wanted to be a hero, even though this is the one place that it's stupid to consider that idea. I don't blame him though, if given the opportunity, I'm pretty sure I'd rather show off than save my own neck.

I canvas the area with a quick glance in each direction. Near the center, the Careers are gathered up, the boy from One barking orders and three of them disbanding whilst the others gather supplies and guard at the same time.

Tamarin's twisted District partner carries a long knife with blood already staining the steel. What a creep.

"I hope Sayla's alright." I look at Cayden and mirror his frown, thinking of Celeste, how she was only an hour ago, stuck in a horrified trance.

"I'm sure she is. She has allies."

"Yeah." He bunches his fists up, biting his lip. "Yeah you're right."

Even if we seem to have some ongoing passive competition between the two of us, Cayden buckles down and listens to me, he takes my words to heart even if I don't think they're the best words to be saying. I'm happy to have him by my side. Now we just need the Brains and Mascot to complete our little crew.

Cayden sidesteps one of the bodies, wrinkling his nose, and gestures towards one of the rose bushes on the other side. Dilara is crouched down, a knife in one hand, a backpack resting by her knee, and her eyes locked firmly on the center. Rather than come out of the shadows and find us, she's waiting for us.

I wouldn't put it past her to lose her courage and shirk her responsibilities. I'd do it too if my pride meant nothing to me.

"We'll get Dilara then find Tamarin, come on."

"I didn't know she liked butterflies, look, there's one on her shoulder." I stare at the little thing perched there, my scowling ally completely oblivious too it. There's a fear in the way she's tucked up that makes me feel sympathy more than disappointment at her actions.

She's tried to act so distant she's never let us get close to her. Now it's hitting her harder than it has us. I only hope we can make her feel more welcome once we regroup.

Step after step, we traverse across the red and into the silvery glow of the grass. Cayden hitches the backpack over his shoulder again and continues to follow on my right. We're getting there, with alliances and loners running around us, out the corner of my eye. I see things I don't want to see.

The girl from Eight almost losing her head, but dodging at the right moment. Sayla, Cayden's District partner, panicking and trying to hide. I don't point it out. His sense of justice will hurt our chances.

I hate what I'm having to do for the sake of ourselves. I was never like this – I'm not like this – it's just the pressure of being a leader with people who rely on you.

Dilara finally sees us coming and raises a hand. "Come to us!" I call out, gesturing a hand. She nods, scrambles out, and freezes.

At that moment, all my senses heighten, and my heart shoots into my throat, choking the shout of warning. The girl with red hair, Gemini, maybe that's her name, charges for us with her sword raised. There's a wild glint to her eye, but the strike isn't as well done as it could have been, like she's holding back.

Cayden falls back in time, and I roll forwards, bringing up my own weapon. It's not the hammer I would have liked, but a weapon will do.

"Two against one, really girl, back off." I try to make myself sound intimidating, with my size, maybe it should work. But not against a Career. She flips her hair over her shoulder and laughs.

"In five seconds I could call over my entire alliance. Don't play that card, scum. You'll regret it."

Cayden dives up from the ground and knocks her to the side. She cries out but swings her sword out at the same time.

This time it hits its target.

This time I cry out, nothing holding me back.

Cayden's head leaves his shoulders, spiraling in an arc and landing with a thunk on the ground. Gemini's eyes widen, but when we look at one another, they narrow and confidence wipes it away again.

"I'll leave that as a warning. See you later." She blows a kiss and runs away, bloody sword dangling by her head, a strand of... Cayden... falling to the ground.

"Oh my..." Something acrid and painful scorches my throat and jets past my lips before I can swallow it back. Every single nerve inside of me is on fire, hurting...

Cayden...

I shield my eyes from his body and his... head... I can't look at him. It's a failure already, at the first stage. I've lost someone. I've let down a friend.

A girl screams. I look up, watch Dilara pitch forwards, an arrow in her chest.

Two friends.

Leven, the girl from Two, lowers her crossbow from a position further away to my right, but nearer to my other ally than I was.

"I'm..." She looks at me, at Dilara, then runs away.

I know I should move. Every fighting part inside of me screams at my legs to carry me away from here. Dilara and Cayden. Dead in minutes.

It takes Tamarin, arriving finally with the bodies near to us, to snap me out of my trance. Tears are forming under her eyelashes, but unlike me, the failure I am, she grabs me by the shoulder and pushes me with a force I had no idea she possessed.

"They're dead. Don't fucking die too..." she chokes and shakes, pulling me along. I look over my shoulder, at Gemini, fighting in the center, and Leven, side by side with her district partner.

The Careers did this.

They made this happen.

Gave me this feeling.

"I hate them." Never before have I felt such anger. I shake off whatever's freezing me to the ground and hold onto my knife, ignoring what Tamarin has to say. "I hate them."

I've failed because of them. I'm no leader. I'm no killer. But I can be. And I will be.

The Careers will pay. They deserve to feel what we feel, hurt like we hurt, cry like we cry. I'm not a bad, vindictive person. Most of the time I haven't got the concentration to focus on one feeling for long periods of time.

But this one finds its way into every inch of my body. I see red when we enter the white. The yellow sun perched above the buildings. It does nothing. It fails its purpose.

"I'll... kill them."

And for the first time, I don't doubt that. Maybe I will become a killer. Maybe, revenge is my goal; maybe I'm just an awful person, lying to himself, lying to everyone.

* * *

**Lysander Davenport, 18 years old;  
District One Male.**

* * *

_Ugh. _The girl from Seven dives under my sword, pivots round my body and makes a beeline for her ally. He watches from afar, one knife in hand, and then the two run straight into the fiery domain. _Ha. _We'll see how far they make it there.

I shouldn't feel this way – relishing their future demise. But she got away. She made a mockery of me. So yeah, she can die, and die she will.

"Tallis, come here!" My voice carries over the air of those running like headless chickens, dodging the dead, and running with their tails between their legs for meager supplies and hopeless allies. I didn't see it before, not properly, but we Careers really don't have any competition.

I'm not going to count anyone out yet, but it's hard not to. People like Evander, he'll have focused so much on internal affairs, what's on the outside doesn't matter.

And that's what will kill him.

The fact he hates us.

It's brilliant.

My District partner, bright red and panting, offers a shaky smile and a thumbs up. I pat her on the shoulder warmly and motion towards the trees further on in the distance, away from the Cornucopia.

"Scout the area, take this and kill anyone that's hiding there. Gemini!" Soon enough, she appears, bloodied sword in tow, and nods. "Go with her. When finished, scout the other side. Canvas a wider area."

The second the two of them go, I lunge on the offensive. Not only is it important that as leader I confirm my status by earning a kill, I cannot let someone else earn a higher count than me. It's not embarrassing, per se, these are lives we're talking about after all, not goals in a sports game, but its important for confidence. For sponsors. For survival.

I grip onto my sword and pounce on the nearest tribute, a lone girl both terrified and determined, running straight into my outstretched hand. She screams at the last second and thrashes around, but my muscles speak for themselves, and I bash her head against the Cornucopia.

"Get... get the fuck off me!" She spits and claws at my hands. I drop my sword and only tighten my grip, moving up from her chest and to her neck. Slowly, her eyes go wide, popping out from her skull, veins the deepest blue standing against the red flush creeping from her throat.

"I am sorry, you know. I don't enjoy this. I do this because I have to."

Then, squeezing again, and pulling back, I slam her again, hear the snap, and let go. The only ounce of color on our white robes: our District number, stands out on her cloth. _8. _Chiffon Vander.

I sigh and turn around, scooping up my sword again. It doesn't thrill me this, and this year, there isn't anyone amongst our pack who fits that stereotypical sadist. But it's important I do this.

Now that I've made the first kill on my list, it's the next step. The most crucial part of my plan.

I take a moment to gaze around the chaos, amongst the dead. The Careers are doing exactly as I told them and separating into different areas away from the mouth. Except for her.

Under piles of weapons, I find the two-pronged knife, a distinctive weapon amongst the batch lying there without a wielder. I snatch it up, sheath my sword and swallow down regret. This isn't something new. This is something I've come to terms with, something I have to follow through.

She's standing near the same crates I told her to guard, closer than anyone to the Cornucopia except for me.

Like her position in our alliance, Raegan looks lost, stranded. She catches me walking towards her, weapon in hand, and smiles.

"No one's taken anything."

I nod. "Good. The others seem to have done their jobs well too, five or so are gone already."

As expected, Raegan's enthusiasm is as fake as my extended hand to her. I never, not once, needed her for the future. I didn't. It makes me sad, but everyone has their uses, and everyone has their expiration date.

"Help me carry these to the inside of the Cornucopia."

Raegan follows me without complaint and one by one, we load the crates to the mouth without talking. I can hear footsteps, both hushed and frantic, behind us. Every so often I turn around and see my allies locked in battle with tributes still stuck here, scrounging for supplies. Our supplies.

I'd help them but I have a purpose, right here. A pivotal point towards my victory.

"Alright, that's great. Raegan can you go open that crate behind me, I'll start working on the one closest to the mouth."

"Sure. Whatever you need."

I frown when she walks around me. She's a nice girl, doing what she has to to survive.

But so am I.

Both points of the knife puncture the back of her neck fluidly, going in, then going out when I step back. She cries out weakly, but the noise is soon drowned out by the quiet gurgling as she falls over, choking on her own blood.

I look away and to the ground, closing my eyes for a second. She didn't deserve that. When her body makes the last twitch, a cracked, broken breath leaving her dead lips, I step out with the bloody knife and hide it away in the nearest backpack.

Step one, part one, complete. Now to begin the next part.

They'll all be shocked when someone stumbles across Raegan's body. I'll be shocked. We'll ask questions, fingers will be pointed, the suspicious circumstances of her death a mystery, a nightmare to what we thought was a working group.

And this weapon is the key. The marks on her neck. It'll all slot into place.

My ticket to victory, the fracturing of this alliance, the death of the strongest and I can walk away without injury.

I pick up the same sword and run off, making myself look busy, chasing after stranded tributes searching for their allies. No one will know who did it, because I split them all up on purpose. One of us will be lying – I'll be lying – and they won't have a clue.

Victors play the Game.

And that's exactly what I'm doing.

* * *

**Leven Foxe, 17 years old;  
District Two Female.**

* * *

I raise the crossbow, stare at the last tributes fleeing, and lower it.

I can't. I won't.

Out the corner of my eye when Lysander calls us over, I see her body, half in and half out of the rose petals. Blonde hair askew. Body caked in blood now still from the wound in her chest. I did that. Me. With this crossbow and a single bolt.

I took a life because in that moment, I felt like I had to. What kind of person thinks like that? I only have to look around us, at Gemini, Evander, Dario, Sheen, Tallis and Lysander, all who hold weapons, to know that we're not good people.

Tallis jogs up to Lysander's side. Sheen and Gemini are off by a bundle of supplies, sifting through backpacks and smaller weapons. Evander, as usual, tucks himself away in the shadows, and Dario walks towards me.

There are dead children around us and we're acting like nothing has happened. It's not right. It's not who I want to be. The Capitol built me up, and right now, I've been knocked straight back down again. Even though I know, when the situation comes, I'll do it again.

"I don't need to ask, do I?" The composure he held through running around the Cornucopia, emitting a lack of empathy onto the chase, cracks with worry.

I shake my head. "I didn't even blink. I just pulled the trigger, and now a girl is dead."

"What did you think would happen, really Leven?"

I know he means well, so I don't jump on him, I don't shout and curse at him. That's not me, trying to blame others for my own misgivings, but the pressure is surmounting into something that will hurt my chances of survival.

And I've been told now that I can do this. So I have to, don't I? I have to win.

"I'll learn to cope. Hopefully. If not, I'll do it anyway..."

"You let them go." In the distance, mere dots on the horizon, a duo hold hands and disappear into a thick, foggy forest of twisted tree limbs.

"I'll do it when I have to. That wasn't a case of have. Only a person who wants to would have shot the arrow."

"It's have all the time Leven. They could kill you, you know that, don't you?"

"I'm not stupid," I bite back, louder than intended. Dario steps forwards to place a hand down, but for the first time, I move back from his touch.

"I'm going to go see if the others need me." I move past him and freeze, closing my eyes. _It's not his fault Leven, he's the fighter here, he's trying to fight for you. _"I'm sorry-"

"Where's Raegan?"

The two of us cut away from one another, and turn to face the group, acting without a care. Lysander's too deep in conversation with Tallis that he doesn't notice Dario moving swiftly past me, heading straight for him.

"Lysander."

Finally, he looks up and I jog to catch up, the others realizing something is wrong and latching onto the change in atmosphere. When Evander takes a backseat position, lingering by my shoulder, Dario stares right at Lysander. Our leader. The boy in charge.

"Raegan. Where is Raegan."

"I told her to guard the crates." He looks around and pauses for a moment, frowning. "Someone's moved them."

"Raegan might have," Tallis pipes up.

"The only place to hide crates is-" Gemini leads the way towards the Cornucopia, but I feel it already, the dread, like a weight in my stomach, swinging like a pendulum, waiting to be cut.

"Oh my-"

Lysander barges past her and stares at the sight before us. Further on in the golden horn, Raegan lies face forward in a pool of her own blood, two holes clearly punctured into her neck. Tallis squeals, raising a hand to her mouth. Dario mumbles something. Evander walks away even further.

Lysander looks around, glaring at us all.

"Someone killed her."

No one says anything. I swallow a lump away in my throat. Raegan's dead. One of us, gone. Just like that. I wasn't close to her, but she was a fighter, she did what she could for our group, and someone... one of us... they just murdered her.

I suddenly feel like all eyes on me, when I know they aren't. If someone here killed her, then something has happened, someone we can't trust. The catalyst to every Career group: a backstabber. I watch Lysander start talking in hushed tones with the two girls, Dario hurries to my side, with Sheen hovering behind him.

"Evander, bring your backpack." The boy from Nine looks down at the mention of his name, his bag by his feet, and hurries to the group. He stands there awkwardly, like always, as if waiting for something.

Only there's nothing. Lysander looks visibly worried, something I haven't seen before in his attitude, and peers back into the Cornucopia.

"Maybe someone else did it. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. But a leader needs to trust his team, and someone here could have easily done that without anyone seeing."

"No one here would-" Tallis is silenced immediately with a raised hand.

"I trust you all. I mean it. Did anyone see something, anything?"

"Dead people." Gemini replies, dryly. Her bloody sword falls to the ground and she stares at it, shrugging her shoulders. I know the feeling all too well. Dario hides it away, the two of us can't deal with it.

"We were all split up, hunting down the tributes. I saw nothing." Sheen looks hurt beyond any of us. He was closer to the girl from Five. My heart aches for him, for all of us. We were a team constructed wrongly, based on a desire to kill, but we still acted like we fit together.

Now this happened.

Now everything has gone to hell.

"Evander, you're awfully quiet."

Evander looks up again and remains staring at Lysander, without opening his mouth.

"What were you doing?"

"Killing."

His voice chills me. This is a boy who could have done it. This is a boy we shouldn't have trusted. Or is it just a fabrication? I bet the others, from different Districts, loathe me based on where I'm from. The way he acts – I'm not the kind of person who judges on that. So I won't. I can't.

"Show me your bag."

"This isn't my-"

Before he can say anything, there's a crackle of something, rock on rock. We all turn and see a lone figure dart out, dragging a twisted knee behind her.

"Leven. Shoot."

Lysander's order rings in my ears, but I don't even deny it. Automatically, my arm rises, the trigger is pulled, and a bolt plunges into the other leg of the girl.

When she screams and Lysander looks at me, I drop the bow. Despair seeps into every crevice, regret, guilt. Dario grips onto my hand and stares into my eyes, asking a question without having to say anything.

"Finish the job."

Lysander's our authority. We obey. And yet I can't, my legs remain stiff, fixed to the ground, disobedient. He says it again and I shake my head, biting my lip. I can't kill another girl. A girl I shot, a girl I condemned to her fate.

"I'll do it."

Dario makes the short journey and I cry out his name, no idea why, but it fights free without me even thinking. I recognize the girl: Sayla; Gemini killed her District partner. The darkened _10 _on her sleeve is bright with blood as she thrashes around in the pool forming from the wound in her leg.

"Please... I didn't... please..." she cries out two names, her allies, and grabs onto the rock, helplessly trying to get away. Tears form in my eyes at the same time tears fall from hers. "Please. Don't. Let me g-"

Dario's spearhead pierces her throat and all mercy is cut short. She dies, choking, and goes still within seconds.

Eight cannons go off at that precise moment. They were waiting for us to find her. And we did.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, wiping my eyes with the look Lysander sends my way. The look I know all too well.

Disappointment.

"I don't trust him." He leaves that hanging over us, staring at Evander who drags the bag with him, limp by his side as Dario pulls me into an embrace. Sheen walks off, falls to the ground and puts his head in his hands. Tallis and Gemini stick by Lysander's hip.

We all have our place.

My place is to be the failed Career. I took a life. I shot a girl. I cried.

I failed.

"I'm sorry." I repeat, this time for Dario, this time for forcing him to do it when it should have been me.

He only strokes my back, pulling me in tighter, comforting me. "You're a good person Leven. I won't let you lose that, no matter what he says."

_He._

I look over at Evander, then over at Lysander, then at the mouth where I can vaguely see Raegan's dead body.

Something has happened. Something wrong. I don't know who to trust, but I'm starting to piece it together and I don't like it.

This is only going to get harder. It's about time I grow up, or die.

Courage over cowardice.

Kill or be killed.

* * *

_**Soren Ansel, District Three Male.**_

_**Ash Rowe, District Twelve Male.**_

_**Clarence Higbee, District Eleven Male.**_

_**Cayden Armani, District Ten Male.**_

_**Dilara Donovan, District Eleven Female.**_

_**Chiffon Vander, District Eight Female.**_

_**Raegan Kalis, District Five Female.**_

_**Sayla Reinhardt, District Ten Female.**_

* * *

**Massive apologies to ejbrown, Jalen, SomeDays, jacob, Remus, Axe, Cloe, Aspect. Some of these were actually really hard to kill off. Usually, my bloodbaths turn out to be the ones everyone expected, so I mixed it up a little, and tried to take out a few you would have thought would have died in favor of those you wouldn't. Everyone here died for a reason, though. I think it worked, but I am sorry, and hope you carry on reading. For the final time, thanks for submitting!**

* * *

_**Any deaths you didn't expect? **_

_**Any who survived that you're surprised about?**_

* * *

**Early update!**

**It's the bloodbath though, course it's gonna be quick xD I will admit, I'm not totally pleased, but it's still something, and something is always nice! Eight down, fifteen to go. I'm excited to now get into the Games portion, though I'll probably now start rotating this with my other story since they're both now at the Games stage.**

**Review if you can and thanks for reading :)**


	19. Something

**Chapter Nineteen.**

* * *

**Day One, Part One.**

* * *

**Meva Ralline, 18 years old;  
District Three Female.**

* * *

_Run, run, RUN. _I don't look over my shoulder, not once, not ever. My side hurts, my lungs burn, my head aches, but I keep on running. The bloodbath is far behind me, nothing but a painful recent memory, and soon enough I'm across the boundary of the luminescent city. It's beautiful, but I don't stop to take it in, not until I know I'm not being chased by the Careers.

Clarence is dead.

I thought I wouldn't be able to control any part of myself when I tripped, fell flat on my face, and cried near his dead body. I thought, when I was able to comprehend what it meant, being alone, that I was done for.

Now though, throwing open a door and running into the wide foyer of what looks like a luxury hotel of some sorts, I fall down and place my head in my knees. I made it out, alive. He didn't, Clarence is dead.

My friend.

The tears have gone at least. I don't think crying is weakness, in fact quite the opposite, but for the cameras no doubt circulating the survivors, their own perception is what matters here and now. I shouldn't think in terms of that. Who's watching, who isn't. Those safe and sound behind closed doors should be the least of my worries.

They're not targets, they're not going to die, they're not victims in this twisted entertainment show. But I do, because I'm smart. I know the ins and outs of my situation. I know if I shed what I'm holding up for what's broken within, I'm done for.

I'll have mutts thrown at me. I'll be forced back to the Careers. I'll die, basically. And I don't want to die.

I don't ever want to die. The biggest change of all. Life to death. I don't want that.

I feel around the floor for the backpack that's fallen off my shoulder. There's a shard of glass somewhere, I found it left randomly alone near where I fell. It seemed out of place, but it's something amongst the meagre amount of food I have, a casket of water, and a tiny line of rope.

It's something, though.

_Think in terms of that, it's important. _Half glass full, not empty. I have something, the dead don't, the dead are just dead. Gone for ever. And those that don't have supplies, they'll starve, dehydrate or whatever nature has in store for them.

I have _something, _and something will always be better than nothing.

Now, with my stomach a mess of emotion, but my head finally clearing the misty kind of fog that must be a side effect of such a situation I just went through, I take in where I am. The furniture is grandiose and ornate, a chandelier of the strangest size and colours hangs in the centre, nearly grazing the floor for whatever random purpose.

There's an elevator on one side, two in fact. An arched stairway that veers from the other side of the room and twists up into the unknown. It's magnificent in a terrifying way. Up there, in here, outside, I'm in a place I've never dealt with.

The Capitol was easier than this. The Capitol had a sense of security despite the lack of familiarity. District Three had people I loved and cared for, I knew where I was, what to do and how to go about it. Here, it's a minute by minute scenario with everything leading onto something new. And everything's new to begin with.

I don't like it.

With Clarence, I had companionship. Now all I have is my own head spitting rubbish at me even when I try to think clearly through this all.

If I explore the higher floors, I might be able to find a place to hide away. But no, hiding is never good, hiding will get me through this for a day or two and then the building will explode or ravenous lion mutts will chew me up, or whatever nonsense the Gamemakers hold in wait for those who bore the audience of Panem.

I'm not a fighter, I have to stick to who I am, I'm a thinker. Not the most reliant girl around, but my brain is my greatest asset, so it's what will get me through this.

First, weapons. A shard of glass is good enough against maybe a rat or a small tribute who doesn't know left from right, but it won't do too well against someone stronger or with a decent sized brain to know I'm not going to last much longer.

I can adapt though. There are windows. Who cares about luxury here?

I pick up a weird bell sitting on the desk and throw it at the ground window, wincing at the crash, waiting for the door to be thrown open, but it doesn't. I sigh with relief and run over, scattering up the glass piece by piece and making a pile inside the building.

The rope is good for one thing, and soon enough, I have several thick strands that I tie around the shards of glass, one piece then the other facing the other way, forming a sort of two-bladed knife.

It's something.

It's doable. I can make this work.

This is the way I have to think now, making the most of a bad situation. Not letting the bad situation get to me, but twisting it around into something good. I have a supply of weapons, food which I can ration, and the most important thing: water.

I have my mind.

I have a building which I won't explore, standing guard near the main entrance, sleeping behind the desk, and venturing out tomorrow where I can start to canvas this portion of the city. I'll take it slowly, but I'll be doing something.

Idleness will be my downfall. I'll be left thinking over things that don't include anything to do with survival, but things in my past, things in a future that I may never reach. I don't want to do that. I want to be focused on me, myself, and nothing else.

I've lost a dear friend, a boy who I took under my wing and wanted to protect, wanted to chisel away his stoic shell and expose him to a way of thinking that would have given him relief before his death.

I won't get to do that. But he would want me to move on, so despite knowing I'll never get over him, I can buckle down and win this for him and myself.

Victory is a far off ideal, but it's doable. Like making weapons. Like scavenging. Like exploring. No matter the odds, it's still something I can _do_.

As long as I have a goal, I have a purpose.

As long as I have a purpose, I have life.

And as long as I have life, I won't die.

Because that's what I'm scared of most: dying.

* * *

**Etolie Laville, 17 years old;  
District Seven Female.**

* * *

I've never felt like this before. It's weird, being in a place as home-like as possible, and yet feeling as distant as can be.

The trees are wrong.

Foreign.

Eerie.

I'd get away and be with the trees to hide, a solace amongst the irritation of daily life. Here, though, there is no solace. It's shadow upon shadow.

"Terrifying," Septimius states, numbly, summarising my thoughts into one emotion. Terrifying.

Although we ventured into the blood-coloured, lava soaked terrain, the woodland area we've come across is something more shrouded in shadow than lit up like the surroundings.

"How does this even work?" Septimius moans, kicking a stone. "There's literally fire everywhere around us, I can see a damn volcano. But here, we've got basically these bugs to guide the way. I can't see shit."

I look at the fireflies and silently appreciate their company. Without them, it'd be pitch black. I don't deal with not knowing what's in front of me.

It's weird though, Septimius complaining. Usually he's a lot more passive, keeping his negative thoughts bottled in and settling on a scowl rather than conversation. I guess here there's nothing restraining him, or maybe it's the fear bringing something else out of him.

I understand that all too well. I'm brave enough, right now, to hold that in though. Keep a lid on the bad stuff and maintain this for a little bit longer.

Despite the lack of light, the air around us is clogged with ash. Breathing is a pain, like tiny burning needles are stabbing into my lungs with each intake of air. Septimius stares at me, frowns and continues to lead the way.

At least he's here. At least I have someone. Funny how I used to run away into forests to be alone, when really, it was company I wanted.

Girls can be tricky beings, Septimius has said it, my friends have said it.

"Do you think we should have gone to the city? At least we'd have walls around us."

"Most of the tributes would have gone there, I mean, that over this any day."

He laughs, shaking his head at me. "You underestimate everyone's intelligence. Maybe they all thought that, maybe the majority are here for that very same reason. No one else would come, so let's go. Now, twenty or so are near us."

I pretend not to hear that, keeping myself silent and focusing on the way forwards. The trees are like crooked sentinels, standing twisted with roots that bulge through the mossy floor and twigs that snap and crack with every footstep.

I hear things in the shadows. They've really amped up the scare factor for this place. Have an Arena that functions on light and slap a forest that runs on the darkness in the middle of it all.

"Do you think Chiffon's okay?"

I halt and look over my shoulder, right at Septimius who fails to meet my eyes. Chiffon? I thought he hated her. I definitely disliked the little busybody, but then again, there's a difference between dislike and wanting someone dead.

I think of Alfie briefly and wish away his innocent face. He could be dead. A boy like him, gone forever.

I hate it.

"If she is, then good on her. If not, I'm sorry."

He looks up and smiles sadly. "She was a bitch, you know. But still innocent, she didn't deserve this."

"None of us do."

"The Careers do." With that, Septimius goes back into grumble mode and pushes past me again. There's a weird switch in him that goes from vulnerability to hostility. It's like he doesn't want to expose himself and instead pushes others away.

It's why I'm drawn to him. We're exactly the same in that respect. Two loners clinging to each other because we can't accept the world for what it is. Can't accept others and their potential to actually be decent human beings.

It takes another ten or so minutes of ambling through the forest, dour mood, horrific habitat for us to find something different. Different being bad.

In front of us, the tree-line stops, revealing a withered patch of dead, decaying grass. In the centre, however, stands the largest tree I've ever seen. Living in Seven we see a lot, but this is something else, this is extraordinary.

Its limbs twist and turn into the red glow above, purging the fiery sky with its form. I have to strain my eyes to see properly, but in the centre, the trunk is wide open, revealing a gaping hole big enough for a person to walk through.

I swallow down the urge to turn back and look at Septimius, his eyes narrowed, but face as pale as a sheet. "What do you think?"

It takes him a minute to find his voice, and when he does, it's thick with terror.

"I think this is way too early to be dealing with this shit."

"Language," I try to lighten the mood, but it has the opposite effect. Despair wracks my body, churning my stomach with the most ugly sensation. The effect of this forest opening up to display such a horrific tree is hypnotic in a way.

"Eight kids just died. We're in the Hunger Games. Anything in the great big book of bad can happen at any time. Giant trees with giant holes is one of them."

"So you want us to go in?" He sounds accusing of me, like if he dies, it'll be my fault and I'll have to deal with that for the rest of my short life. I meet his glare and wait for him to break. He does, because it's his way, tough guy doesn't last forever.

"It's here for a reason. We'll have a vendetta against us if we disappoint them and walk off, leaving such a thing for someone else. We should go. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Think up your worst nightmare and multiply it by a thousand. Then by a million. There's your answer."

Still, I've persuaded him. Not that I'm exactly thrilled jumping head first into something that's the complete opposite of inviting. But I know I'm right. If we turn our backs on this opportunity for a bit of grisly fun – the Gamemakers creation – then well be targeted for it. Together, we're tough. We can take it.

Plus, the naive side of myself is relying on the fact it's early days and the danger level will hopefully be toned down enough for us to survive.

We set off for the tree, my nerves a mess, Septimius mumbling expletives under his breath. I don't deal with chipper, so I'm happy he's pissed. It's real. It's human.

"You know it'd be ironic if a tree killed me." Septimius turns to me, angry face on. "District Seven, heh."

He says nothing. I say nothing.

Onwards we go.

* * *

**Evander Eldegwy, 17 years old;  
District Nine Male.**

* * *

I feel their eyes when no one's looking. Their burning accusations lingering on the back of my neck. My own weapon caked in blood a source of shame rather than glory – the way it should be within this pack.

I felt revitalized in the bloodbath, in my element. A part of me knew that I was only killing a mere innocent, a boy caught in the system, but then I cast those thoughts away and focused on the fact it was a mere step towards my true purpose.

I'll kill a thousand innocents to get what I came here for.

Only, now, there's something wrong. It's _his _doing. I know it, even if they can't see it.

Lysander killed Raegan. Lysander wants this pack to fall apart on its own paranoia. And to do so, my own attitude is being turned against me. The way Careers pride themselves, a robotic emptiness to their stance on killing, and it's being used to hurt my chances.

These Careers _feel _too much. I loathe it.

At least, most of them mind their own business, they keep their fingers down and let Lysander commit to all the subtle drops on my apparent crime. Sheen sits opposite me, taking a hesitant bite out of a cracker, like it's a sin, and then compiling a useful stack of medication.

When I try to empathise with his sorrow over Raegan, I'm happy it doesn't work. I'm happy it falls on nothing I've felt before because his emotions couldn't ever compare to my real loss.

Raegan died because she wanted something that could never have been hers. Power. I don't pity her when she brought about her own downfall.

Sheen glances up at me and offers a stiff smile. I only watch his face contort with supposed grief until he drops his line of sight back to his lap, sifting through painkillers and other tablets I'd never know the name of, and probably never will.

Across from him, nearest to the Cornucopia, Lysander sits with his lackeys. Tallis spouts endlessly about this and that, air-headed nonsense meant to only cement her loyalty to him. It's pathetic. At least Gemini holds herself with a little bit more respect, not fawning over the bastard, but maintaining dignity by watching the two talk with a small smirk on her face.

A monster through and through, but not _as _bad. Lysander is the real evil here. An evil I will purge.

"Leven, Dario. We've decided something, care to join us?" Sheen and I look at the pair from Two gaze over at Lysander in the wake of his announcement. Then they share a glance, nod, and march on over.

Sheen looks slightly crestfallen that he wasn't asked, but immediately goes back to following his orders like a good puppy. I don't think Lysander would ever want me near him unless it's to elaborate somehow on his plot to make us kill each other and leave him victorious.

My backpack, or the one that was near my feet earlier, sits in the bundle nearest. A dark maroon colour, each seems a different shade of something, so we can all know whos is whos without arguments over stealing.

Such a thoughtful guy to not want in-house disputes when he killed an ally and plans to use it to his advantage. What a gentlemen.

I'd laugh if it was funny.

At least from my back-seat position, I can watch the five of them talk without having to actually input anything.

"The main part of what makes the Careers so important to any Hunger Games is the next stage after the bloodbath. Mutts pick off one or two, traps maybe another, but it's us who stir things up. Hunting."

Tallis' smile falters but picks it up before anyone can catch on. Too late. Gemini looks over at her sword, far away the moment she could discard it without suspicion, coated in the blood of her victim. The pair from Two only stare patiently in the direction of Lysander, waiting.

"This Arena seems large. We could make the mistake of splitting up like so many other alliances have done before, losing strength in numbers to gain an advantage in space travelled." He waits for everyone to take what he's saying like some petty leader feasting on the acceptance of his underlings. I feel my skin start to boil, my anger leaking forth and soaking through my skin. I think he catches it, a clench of my fingers round the knife, and a tiny flick in the corner of his mouth alerts me to this awareness.

He knows anyway. How I feel. And I know his intentions, what he's done, what he plans to do. It's a matter of who lets it out first, that's when things get down to business. I have people wrapped around my finger even if they hate me because they're too scared already, he has the same effect because he's painted himself out to be innocent simply through his standing in the pack.

I've gone over mind games coming here, alongside physical training. I'm not scared. In fact, on some levels, I'm excited.

"Tomorrow, we pack up the most important supplies and take them with us to the city. I made sure Sheen," he pauses, acknowledging the boy opposite me who turns to offer a shaky smile before returning to his work, "kept an eye on who went where. The majority have headed within the city. Those on the other side are most likely going to die soon, they don't need us to nudge them in the right direction."

"So we're hunting tomorrow?" Gemini asks, almost innocently. Lysander offers her a smile, the same kind of smile he probably offered Raegan before stabbing her in the neck. She better watch out.

"Yes, Gemini. We're going to hunt during the day, pause to find shelter, resume hunting and then settle for the night. Then the next day we regroup here, take the day to assess the entire situation, and then the next we repeat. It's a process I think will work."

_Until it suits you, _I think nastily, writhing with vitriol. I see the way the others accept this strategy almost happily, too stupid to see the truth.

I didn't find satisfaction in killing the innocent boy in the bloodbath. It served no purpose except for strengthening my place as a Career.

But I know I'll enjoy gutting Lysander, watching him plead for mercy, those snake-like eyes dilate with fear and lose their colour, and then laugh; laugh over his dead body.

It's only a matter of time. He won't last long. Neither will I.

Let it begin, and let it begin soon. Bring on the real game.

* * *

**Celeste Damount, 17 years old;  
District Six Female.**

* * *

_Approach her._

I look through the fractured window, the breeze rattling the remaining glass, and watch her tuck herself in behind the desk.

The girl who rejected me.

A girl upon hundreds, turning their back because I'm not _one of them._

A hi would suffice. A hello. A smile. It should suffice in a good world, it should be enough for her, it should give us the connection of being normal girls trying to survive. Or in the real world, she'll stab me with that glass, and I'll bleed to death.

A normal girl killing a normal girl.

A monster killing a monster.

That's why I don't approach her, because I don't know myself enough to know what she could become. Being alone, in the building opposite her, furnished to the max with the most intricate detailed material I've ever come across; it's enough to suffocate anyone. And it's only the first day.

I watch her because the loneliness isn't just an emotion, it's become a living, breathing part of me.

It hurts. It's never been that I just want to make someone else feel like they're not alone, but to feel that for myself, the acceptance of being a teenage girl. I know, deep down, I know it's impossible. I know the foolishness of wanting something that will only rot and decay like those who died in the bloodbath.

Yet knowing is different to being able to accept. And I can't accept. Because accepting makes me something I'm not, the very person I refused to become, before the Games, and living them in the present.

It must be nearing mid afternoon. There's a red hue to the sky, but not enough for darkness to infest the light of this city. It's beautiful. The skyline, the rooftops, the scenery of such an urban dwelling. It's like having your very own metropolis, where you're the owner, only a scattered few living within enabling a certain freedom that's peaceful.

I know it's not really that, it's crafted by the most evil citizens of Panem, where children die and millions get to watch. But it's nice to imagine. I sit back against the wall, drifting off, _pretending._

Meva has things behind that desk. She has her makeshift knives, her food, her water. She's prepared and I don't like the way I'm reacting to that.

I have nothing because I was too terrified to even wait around to try and find something to take with me. She has the means to survive, the brain no doubt, the emotional strength. She hasn't cried when I know, being alone means Clarence must have died.

What kind of girl doesn't cry over a friend's death?

I'm terrified of Meva and drawn to her at the same time. I want to hear 'sure we can ally', and I also want to run away and never look back.

Perhaps this is why I've always been the way I've been. A girl who isn't afraid to smile and cry. Mysteries like Meva I find elusive, even frightening. Who knows what a clever girl like her is thinking. Whereas me, little me sitting here, I have no plan or strategy for the future.

Nothing but hiding and stumbling over my own thoughts, wanting to cross the gap between myself and being with Meva. Such a short distance and it's like there's a closed wall between us, barbed and strong, holding me back.

Slowly my thoughts drift away to Charlie and his alliance. I bet they're all together. Strong as always. Confident in their chances. A different approach to this, unlike Meva, but the same sort of knowledge in their own abilities and what to do.

I hate the jealousy taking over me. The people I want to be. The way I want my brain to work, or my strength, just so I can believe in a real chance rather than clinging to deluded hope.

The Careers have something I'll never have: an acceptance towards killing. Maybe that's the difference between me and everyone else. Maybe somewhere along the line, normal children raised in a way similar to my own upbringing have managed to accept the same sort of mindset as the Careers.

Maybe it's my own fault and it's why I'm feeling this way. But then what's the point? Really? I'd rather lean against this wall debating with myself about whether to talk to Meva or not, than be out there, hunting; living knowing that the next person I come across will die by my own hand because it's just the way it has to go.

To live others can't. But that doesn't make it easy. None of this is easy in any shape or form.

I take a deep breath and cross my arms over my legs, tucking myself in away from the door and away from sight. At least here, for now, I'm safe. The excitement factor is still there for the bloodthirsty, wanting death, craving violence.

If I'm going to approach Meva, I have tonight to think on it. I can't sit here, hurting myself with indecisiveness. It's either I ask her, or I go out and do something.

Maybe look for some food, that'd be a good start. Although I'm hungry, I know today I can last. Tomorrow morning it's ask Meva and deal with whatever happens, or become a tribute in the most basic sense, ignoring the murder side of the character.

_At least you're alive. _I find a small, minute amount of comfort in that. I'm alive. I may have chickened out and ran without thinking of the consequences of not taking anything, but I'm still breathing, and that counts for something.

Eight have died. I'm alive.

I want to cry, and probably seeing the faces, I will. They were still kids, after all. They might have turned me down, but they're innocent in my eyes, and always will be.

I'm scared.

Really scared.

Of the faces in the sky. Of tomorrow. Of everything.

Today, though, I have breathing room. I try to settle my frantic thoughts and let my mind drift away from the horror and into a state of calm.

Today is a bad day, but it's done.

Let what happens, happen.

I'm safe. For now.

* * *

_**No deaths.**_

* * *

**I thought about writing a little bit about each tribute who died in the previous chapter, how I thought about them, maybe why I chose them to die, but really it'd be me just apologising and saying 'it was their time'. I'll say something about future deaths, but not those, sorry about that.**

* * *

_**Who do you predict will be the next tribute to fall?**_

_**Which section of this Arena – city or fire – would you head to if you had the choice?**_

* * *

**Another quick update, hooray! Eh, I said I'd rotate back to my other story, but this chapter I wanted to get done because I'm excited for these Games. We'll see if I actually stick to the plan and go back now to write the other story and give it a chapter, but whatever happens, there'll be an update for something soon.**

**The chapter after the bloodbath, and the few after, are always a bit slower paced. It gives me time to let the survivors think for a minute and get to know their current state of mind. Things are setting up though, little bits here and there that will develop as chapters go. **

**Next we'll have the final part of this first day. See you then!**


End file.
